THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  ILLINOIS 
library 


e.u 

IW 


Return  this  book  on  or  before  the 
Latest  Date  stamped  below.  A 
charge  is  made  on  all  overdue 
books. 

U.  of  I.  Library 


0G124‘3? 
DEC  3’37 

Di^Nl8'3e 


jEes  '38 
I flPfl33’38 


AUb  -4  1942 

FFR  !9b^ 


HOli  22  ‘94 

'■  * • o Lvj»^ 


AiiG  26  38 
fiPR  -3  1339 

i 7 


t < 

i t IG/ 


^V/y  y 


P ""5  19S4 


JAifl 

m 16  1956 


9324-S 


TBttfBBAh'r 

t' m 

{^NiYEIiSiTV  Of  lUtiil 


^no\D’Bounti 

AND  OTHER  AUTOBIOGRAPHIC  POEMS 

BY 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

Cambriboe 

1900 


COPYRIGHT,  1900,  BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  & CO. 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


W G 


\ dO' 


CONTENTS 


4T 

IP 


V 


<r 


3 


Snow-Bound  : A Winter  Idyl 

. 1 

The  Barefoot  Boy  . 

30 

To  MY  Old  Schoolmaster  . 

. 34 

In  School-Days  .... 

40 

My  Playmate  . . . 

Memories 

44 

Telling  the  Bees  . 

. 48 

^URNS 

50 

To  MY  Sister  .... 

Ichabod  . . . . 

56 

The  Lost  Occasion 

The  Quaker  of  the  Olden  Time 

62 

The  Meeting  .... 

Hampton  Beach  .... 

71 

A Sea  Dream  . . . . 

Summer  by  the  Lakeside 

79 

Sunset  on  the  Bearcamp  . 

. 83 

The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn  • 

86 

An  Out-Door  Reception 

. 95 

The  Tent  on  the  Beach 

99 

The  Wreck  of  Rivermouth 

. 108 

The  Grave  by  the  Lake  . . 

114 

The  Brother  of  Mercy 

. 126 

129 

The  Maids  of  Attitash 

. 134 

Kallundborg  Church 

• 

140 

The  Cable  Hymn 

The  Dead  Ship  of  Harpswell 

• 

• 

146 

The  Palatine 

. 149 

Abraham  Davenport 

• 

• 

• 

154 

The  Worship  of  Nature  . 

• 

# 

• 158 

VI 


CONTENTS 


Ego • . 

My  Psalm  . • 

Response  • 

At  Last  .€••••«•• 
Notes  . • • • • • • • • • 


160 

166 

169 

170 
173 


EDITOE’S  NOTE 


HEN  Mr.  WMttier,  a few  years  before  his 


death,  supervised  the  definitive  Riverside 
edition  of  his  Poems,  he  classified  them  under  sev- 
eral heads,  among  them  being  ‘‘  Poems  Subjective 
and  Reminiscent.”  In  this  group  he  placed  “ Snow- 
Bound,”  “Memories,”  “Ego,”  “The  Barefoot  Boy,” 
“ My  Psalm,”  “ In  SoJiool-Days,”  “ Response,”  “ To 
my  Sister,”  and  others  which  were  now  disclosures 
of  himself  with  the  frankness  of  a Friend  bearing 
testimony,  now  vivid  recollections  of  the  early 
years  of  his  life;  for  as  with  poets  in  general. 
Memory  often  beckoned  Imagination  to  come  and 
sit  in  the  cool  shade  of  youth. 

Though  this  section  of  his  Poems  is  thus  pur- 
posely autobiographic  in  character,  all  of  the  divi- 
sions, “ Personal,”  “ Anti-Slavery,”  “ Poems  of  Na- 
ture,” “ Songs  of  Labor  and  Reform,”  “ Religious 
Poems,”  “ Narrative  and  Legendary  Poems,”  “ Oc- 
casional Poems,”  “ At  Sundown,”  are  characterized 
by  that  strong  personal  element  which  has  en- 
deared Whittier  to  readers  because  the  man,  genu- 
inely humble  in  spirit,  was  yet  so  at  one  with 
God,  nature,  and  humanity  that  he  spoke  and  sang 
clearly  in  his  own  voice,  never  in  falsetto,  always 
as  one  upon  whom  as  on  an  instrument  the  spirit 
of  truth  played  from  the  lowest  note  to  the  top  of 
his  compass. 


viii 


EDITOR’S  NOTE 


Never  was  a poet  so  frank  and  so  entirely  void 
of  self-conceit.  If  sometimes  he  rambled  on  in 
verse  about  the  thoughts  and  feelings  over  which 
he  brooded  till  one  wondered  that  he  should  find 
himself  so  interesting,  there  never  was  a note  of 
vanity  or  even  of  the  pride  of  humility.  The  forth- 
rightness of  his  song  might  sometimes  be  careless, 
perhaps  garrulous  in  form,  but  it  was.  always  genu- 
ine and  not  assumed ; certainly  it  was  the  farthest 
removed  from  dramatic  concealment.  These  quali- 
ties make  the  man  himself  so  evident  in  his  verse 
that  it  is  doubtful  if  his  biography  will  ever  be 
much  read ; his  life  is  so  much  more  vividly  told 
in  his  own  poems  than  it  ever  could  be  by  any 
other  narrator,  even  than  it  could  have  been  by 
himself  in  prose.  Indeed,  there  is  a curious  cor- 
roboration of  this  in  Mr.  Pickard’s  Life,  There 
the  biographer  has  collected  some  of  Mr.  Whit- 
tier’s letters,  and  how  bald,  how  dry  are  these  ex- 
pressions of  himself  beside  the  animated  clear- 
voiced and  liquid  notes  of  his  song  ! 

The  mere  incidents  of  the  poet’s  life,  though  he 
lived  in  stirring  times  and  was  a most  active  instru- 
ment in  creating  the  stir,  are  devoid  of  dramatic 
character.  No  wood-thrush  could  seem  so  con- 
cealed from  observation  as  this  “wood-thrush  of 
Essex.”  The  simple  household  life  he  led,  under 
conditions  often  of  physical  weakness,  was  in 
strange  contrast  to  the  clarion  bursts  with  which 
in  a spiritual  sense  he  led  forth  the  hosts  to  war. 
No,  one  must  look  for  the  real  Whittier  not  in  the 
annals  of  Amesbury,  but  in  the  poems  which  re- 


EDITOR’S  NOTE 


IX 


corded  the  life  of  a great  spirit  at  once  homely  and 
universal,  sensitive  to  the  lightest  breath  yet  ani- 
mated by  heroic  virtues,  now  domiciled  by  a coun- 
try hearth,  now  at  large  by  ocean  and  mountain  or 
fighting  on  foot  in  the  ranks  of  the  great  army 
engaged  in  the  Holy  War. 

This  volume  is  planned  with  the  purpose  of  giv- 
ing an  outline,  in  Whittier’s  own  most  character- 
istic verse,  of  the  life  of  this  truthful  poet.  An 
outline  only  it  can  be,  yet  by  means  of  it  one  may 
trace  in  no  uncertain  phrase  the  New  England 
boy  baptized  by  the  spirit  of  the  Society  of  Friends, 
yet  dominated  by  an  imagination  which  made  the 
world  glow  for  him  in  color  and  sing  with  a mel- 
ody not  to  be  drowned  by  the  voices  of  wrath  which 
were  rising  all  about  him.  In  “ Snojv-Bprad  ” m 
in  “The  Barefoot  Boy”  the  very  details  of  his 
homely  life  are  drawn  with  an  accuracy  rightly 
called  Flemish  rather  than  pre-Raphaelite,  because 
of  the  rich  human  flavor  attached  to  it.  The 
poems  which  follow  touch  upon  deeper  experiences, 
scarcely  uncovered  except  in  verse,  yet  there  almost 
intimately  revealed.  In  “Burns”  one  may  read 
the  poet’s  own  confession  of  how  the  Scotch  singer, 
so  akin  to  him  in  many  ways,  was  the  touchstone 
by  which  he  discovered  the  purity  of  the  vein  which 
ran  through  his  own  formation.  The  two  poems 
on  Webster  are  chosen  out  of  all  the  number  pro- 
perly relating  to  the  anti-slavery  crusade,  because 
they  combine  in  so  emphatic  a manner  that  stern 
temper  as  of  a Hebrew  prophet  with  which  Whittier 
spoke  his  “ Thus  saith  the  Lord,”  and  that  utter 


X 


EDITOR’S 


absence  of  vindictiveness  v^hich  made  him  walk 
unscathed  in  the  midst  of  his  own  words  of  fire ; 
because  also  they  hint  at  that  strong  political  tem- 
per which  gave  the  poet  a singularly  practical  hold 
upon  the  movements  of  his  day. 

It  is  not  an  abrupt  passage  from  Whittier  the 
anti-slavery  prophet  to  Whittier  the  Friend  and 
seer,  and  then  in  a group  of  half  a dozen  poems 
one  may  catch  some  glimpse  of  that  affectionate 
knowledge  of  nature,  bounded  by  the  ocean  on  one 
side  and  the  mountains  on  the  other,  which  shows, 
almost  more  surely  than  any  other  phase  of  his 
poetical  spirit,  the  large,  universal  temper  of  a man 
walking  with  the  Lord  God  in  the  garden  in  the 
cool  of  the  day.  But  by  a natural  transition  the 
reader  comes  at  once  on  this  genuinely  companion- 
able being  in  happy  converse  with  friends.  In 
actual  life  Whittier,  shy  and  reserved,  seemed  to 
meet  others  most  frankly  out  of  doors.  “ An  Out- 
door Reception  ” is  almost  a chronicle  of  the  many 
picnics  in  which  he  engaged,  but  the  mosaic  ‘‘  The 
Tent  on  the  Beach  ” is  as-eharacteristic  a picture 
of  the  man  Whittier  in  the  midst  of  his  congenial 
companions,  as  “ Snow-Bound  ” is  of  the  boy  in  the 
seclusion  of  home.  “ The  Tent  on  the  Beach,” 
moreover,  offers  a happy  illustration  of  the  story- 
telling faculty  which  was  native  to  the  poet,  and 
has  made  him  on  the  whole  the  nearest  to  the 
primitive  ballad  singer  of  any  of  our  poets. 

And  so  finally  we  may  listen  to  the  poet  by  him- 
self in  those  reflective  verses,  mellow  with  an  age 
calm  and  cheerful,  that  sing  his  serene  creed  and 


EDITOR’S  NOTE 


xi 


show  most  directly  and  simply  his  place  in  the 
choir  invisible.  It  would  be  easy  to  fill  out  this 
outline  at  almost  every  point,  but  outline  though 
it  is,  here  is  a picture  drawn  by  himself  of  the 
most  human  and  artless  and  yet  self-informed  of 
our  poets. 

The  head-notes  to  the  poems  are  those  prefixed 
by  the  poet  himself  when  collecting  the  Riverside 
edition,  and  transferred  by  the  editor,  with  occa- 
sional slight  enlargement  or  modification,  when 
preparing  the  Cambridge  edition. 


H.  E.  S. 


SNOW-BOUND 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 


rjlQJE  inmates  of  the  family  at  the  Whittier 
A homestead  who  are  referred  to  in  the  poem 
were  my  father,  motl^r,  my  , brother  and  two 
sisters^  and  my  uncle  and  aunt,  both  unmarried^, 
In  addition,  thei;^  wa^  the  district  school  master, 
who  boarded  with  us.  The  “ not  unfeared,  half- 
welcome guest  ” was  Harriet  Livermore,  daughter 
of  Judge  Livermore,  of  New  Hampshire,  a young 
■v^oman  of  fine  natural  ability,  enthusiastic,  eccen- 
tric, with  slight  control  over  her  violent  temper, 
which  sometimes  made  her  religious  profession 
doubtful.  She  was  equally  ready  to  exhort  in 
school-house  prayer-meetings  and  dance  in  a Wash- 
ington ball-room,  while  her  father  was  a member 
of  Congress.  She  early  embraced  the  doctrine  of 
the  Second  Advent,  and  felt  it  her  duty  to  proclaim 
the  Lord’s  speedy  coming.  With  this  message  she 
crossed  the  Atlantic  and  spent  the  greater  part  of 
a long  life  in  travelling  over  Europe  and  Asia. 
She  lived  some  time  with  Lady  Hester  Stanhope,  a 
woman  as  fantastic  and  mentally  strained  as  her- 
self, on  the  slope  of  Mt.  Lebanon,  but  finally  quar- 
relled with  her  in  regard  to  two  white  horses  with 
red  marks  on  their  backs  which  suggested  the  idea 
of  saddles,  on  which  her  titled  hostess  expected  to 
ride  into  Jerusalem  with  the  Lord.  A friend  of 


2 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 


mine  found  her,  when  quite  an  old  woman,  wan- 
dering in  Syria  with  a tribe  of  Arabs,  who  with 
the  Oriental  notion  that  madness  is  inspiration, 
accepted  her  as  their  prophetess  and  leader.  At 
the  time  referred  to  in  Snow-Bound  she  was  board- 
ing at  the  Rocks  Village,  about  two  miles  from  us. 

In  my  boyhood,  in  our  lonely  farm-house,  we 
had  scanty  sources  of  information ; few  books  and 
only  a small  weekly  newspaper.  Our  only  annual 
was  the  Almanac.  Under  such  circumstances 
story-telling  was  a necessary  resource  in  the  long 
winter  evenings.  My  father  when  a young  man 
had  traversed  the  wilderness  to  Canada,  and  could 
tell  us  of  his  adventures  with  Indians  and  wild 
beasts,  and  of  his  sojourn  in  the  French  villages. 
My  uncle  was  ready  with  his  record  of  hunting 
and  fishing  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  with  sto- 
ries which  he  at  least  half  believed,  of  witchcraft 
and  apparitions.  My  mother,  who  was  born  in 
the  Indian-haunted  region  of  Somersworth,  New 
Hampshire,  between  Dover  and  Portsmouth,  told 
us  of  the  inroads  of  the  savages,  and  the  narrow 
escape  of  her  ancestors.  She  described  strange  peo- 
ple who  lived  on  the  Piscataqua  and  Cocheco, 
among  whom  was  Bantam,  the  sorcerer.  I have 
in  my  possession  the  wizard’s  “ conjuring  book,” 
which  he  solemnly  opened  when  consulted.  It  is 
a copy  of  Cornelius  Agrippa’s  Magic,  printed  in 
1651,  dedicated  to  Dr.  Robert  Child,  who,  like  Mi- 
chael Scott,  had  learned 

‘Hhe  art  of  glammorie 
In  Padua  beyond  the  sea,’* 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 


3 


and  who  is  famous  in  the  annals  of  Massachusetts, 
where  he  was  at  one  time  a resident,  as  the  first 
man  who  dared  petition  the  General  Court  for  lib- 
erty of  conscience.  The  full  title  of  the  book  is 
Three  Books  of  Occult  Philosophy,  hy  Henry  Cor- 
nelius Agrippa,  Knight,  Doctor  of  both  Laws,  Coun- 
sellor to  Ccesar’s  Sacred  Majesty  and  Judge  of  the 
Prerogative  Court, 


SNOW-BOUND 

A WESTTER  IDYL 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD  IT  DE- 
SCRIBES 

THIS  POEM  IS  DEDICATED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


As  the  Spirits  of  Darkness  be  stronger  in  the  dark,  so 
Good  Spirits,  which  be  Angels  of  Light,  are  augmented  not 
only  by  the  Divine  light  of  the  Sun,  but  also  by  our  common 
Wood  Fire:  and  as  the  Celestial  Fire  drives  awav  dark 

spirits,  so  also  this  our  Fire  of  VTood  doth  the  same.’* 

Coe.  Agkippa,  Occult  Philosophy^  Book  I.  ch.  v. 

" Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky. 

Arrives  the  snow,  and,  driving  o’er  the  fields, 

Seems  nowhere  to  alight:  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river  and  the  heaven. 

And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden’s  end. 

The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier’s  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a tumultuous  privacy  of  storm.” 

Emeeson,  The  Snow  Storm, 

The  sun  that  brief  December  day 
Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray. 

And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 
A sadder  light  than  waning  moon. 


SJSrOW-BOUND 

Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky 
Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 

A portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 

It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 

A chill  no  coat,  however  stout. 

Of  homespun  stuff  could  quite  shut  out, 

A hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold. 

That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling  race 
Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  face. 

The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 

The  wind  blew  east ; we  heard  the  roar 
Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore. 

And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 
S^eat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

Meanwhile  we  did  our  nightly  chores, 

Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors. 
Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 
Baked  down  the  herd’s-grass  for  the  cows : 
Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his  corn ; 
And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn. 
Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows 
The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows ; 
While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 
Upon  the  scaffold’s  pole  of  birch. 

The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent 
And  down  his  querulous  challenge  sent. 

Unwarmed  by  any  sunset  light 
The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 

A night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm 
And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm. 


SNOW-BOUND 


7 


As  zigzag,  wavering  to  and  fro, 

Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged  snow : 

jAnd  ere  the  early  bedtime  came 

The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame, 

And  through  the  glass  the  clothes-line  posts 
^oked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts. 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on : 

The  morning  broke  without  a sun ; 

In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 
Of  Nature’s  geometric  signs, 

In  starry  flake,  and  pellicle. 

All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell ; 

And,  when  the  second  morning  shone. 

We  looked  upon  a world  unknown. 

On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent 
The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament. 

No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below,  — 

A universe  of  sky  and  snow  ! 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 
Took  marvellous  shapes ; strange  domes  and 
towers 

Bose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood, 

Or  garden-wall,  or  belt  of  wood ; 

A smooth  white  mound  the  brush-pile  showed, 

A fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road ; 

The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat 

With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat ; 

The_wnl]  fin rh  had  a Chinese  roof ; 

And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 

In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 
Of  Pisa’s  leaning  miracle. 


8 


SNOW-BOUND 


A prompt,  decisive  man,  no  breath 
Our  father  wasted ; Boys,  a path  ! ” 

Well  pleased,  (for  when  did  farmer  boy 
flount  such  a summons  less  than  joy  ?) 

Our  buskins  on  our  feet  we  drew ; 

With  mittened  hands,  and  caps  drawn  low, 
To  guard  our  necks  and  ears  from  snow, 

We  cut  the  solid  whiteness  through. 

And,  where  the  drift  was  deepest,  made 
A tunnel  walled  and  overlaid 
With  dazzling  crystal : we  had  read 
Of  rare  Aladdin’s  wondrous  cave. 

And  to  our  own  his  name  we  gave, 

With  many  a wish  the  luck  were  ours 
To  test  his  lamp’s  supernal  powers. 

reached  the  barn  with  merry  din, 

And  roused  the  prisoned  brutes  within. 

The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out. 

And  grave  with  wonder  gazed  about ; 

The  cock  his  lusty  greeting  said. 

And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led ; 

The  oxen  lashed  their  tails,  and  hooked. 
And  mild  reproach  of  hunger  looked ; 

The  horned  patriarch  of  the  sheep. 

Like  Egypt’s  Amun  roused  from  sleep, 
Shook  his  sage  head  with  gesture  mute. 
And  emphasized  with  stamp  of  foot. 

r — ^ 

All  day  the  gusty  north-wind  bore 
The  loosening  drift  its  breath  before ; 

Low  circling  round  its  southern  zone, 

The  sun  through  dazzling  snow-mist  shone. 


SNOW-BOUND 

No  church-bell  lent  its  Christian  tone 
To  the  savage  air,  no  social  smoke 
Curled  over  woods  of  snow-hung  oak. 

' A solitude  made  more  intense 
By  dreary-voiced  elements, 

The  shrieking  of  the  mindless  wind, 

The  moaning  tree-boughs  swaying  blind, 
And  on  the  glass  the  unmeaning  beat 
(Of  ghostly  finger-tips  of  sleet. 

Beyond  the  circle  of  our  hearth 
No  welcome  sound  of  toil  or  mirth 
Unbound  the  spell,  and  testified 
Of  human  life  and  thought  outside. 

We  minded  that  the  sharpest  ear 
The  buried  brooklet  could  not  hear, 

The  music  of  whose  liquid  lip 
Had  been  to  us  companionship, 

And,  in  our  lonely  life,  had  grown 
To  have  an  almost  human  tone. 

As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 
Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west. 
The  sun,  a snow-blown  traveller,  sank 
From  sight  beneath  the  smothering  bank, 
We  piled,  with  care,  our  nightly  stack 
Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back,  — 
The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick. 
And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick ; 

The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart. 

And  filled  between  with  curious  art 
The  ragged  brush ; then,  hovering  near. 
We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear. 


10 


SNOW-BOUISTD 


Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 
On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 
Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room 
Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom  ; 

While  radiant  with  a mimic  flame 
Outside  the  sparkling  drift  became. 

And  through  the  bare-boughed  lilac-tree 
Our  own  warm  hearth  seemed  blazing  free. 
The  crane  and  pendent  trammels  showed. 
The  Turks’  heads  on  the  andirons  glowed  ; 
While  childish  fancy,  prompt  to  tell 
The  meaning  of  the  miracle. 

Whispered  the  old  rhyme : “ Under  the  tree. 
When  fire  outdoor  hums  merrily^ 

There  the  witches  are  making  tea” 

The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 
Shone  at  its  full ; the  hill-range  stood 
Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood. 

Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and  keen, 
Dead  white,  save  where  some  sharp  ravine 
Took  shadow,  or  the  sombre  green 
Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 
Against  the  whiteness  at  their  back. 

For  such  a world  and  such  a night 
Most  fitting  that  unwarming  light. 

Which  only  seemed  where’er  it  fell 
To  make  the  coldness  visible. 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without. 

We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about. 
Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 
In  bafiled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 


SNOW-BOUND 


11 


While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 
The  frost-^ine  back  with  tropic  heat ; 

And  ever,  when  a louder  blast 
Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 

The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 
The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed ; 
The  house-dog  on  his  paws  outspread 
Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head. 

The  cat’s  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 
A couchant  tiger’s  seemed  to  fall ; 

And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet. 

Between  the  andirons’  straddling  feet,  ' 
The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 

The  apples  sputtered  in  a row. 

And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 
With  nuts  from  brown  October’s  wood. 

What  matter  how  the  night  behaved? 
What  matter  how  the  north-wind  raved  ? 
Blow  high,  blow  low,  not  all  its  snow 
Could  quench  our  hearth-fire’s  ruddy  glow. 
O Time  and  Change  ! — with  hair  as  gray 
As  was  my  sire’s  that  winter  day. 

How  strange  it  seems,  with  so  much  gone 
Of  life  and  love,  to  still  live  on ! 

Ah,  brother  ! only  I and  thou 
Are  left  of  all  that  circle  now,  — 

The  dear  home  faces  whereupon 
That  fitful  firelight  paled  and  shone. 
Henceforward,  listen  as  we  will. 

The  voices  of  that  hearth  are  still ; 

Look  where  we  may,  the  wide  earth  o’er, 
Those  lighted  faces  smile  no  more. 


12 


SNOW-BOUND 


We  tread  the  paths  their  feet  have  worn, 
We  sit  beneath  their  orchard  trees, 

We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of  bees 
And  rustle  of  the  bladed  corn ; 

We  turn  the  pages  that  they  read. 

Their  written  words  we  linger  o’er,  ^ 
But  in  the  sun  they  cast  no  shade, 

No  voice  is  heard,  no  sign  is  made. 

No  step  is  on  the  conscious  floor  ! 

Yet  Love  will  dream,  and  Faith  will  trust, 
(Since  He  who  knows  our  need  is  just,) 
That  somehow,  somewhere,  meet  we  must. 
Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 
The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress-trees  ! 
Who,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away. 

Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 
Across  the  mournful  marbles  play ! 

Who  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of  faith. 
The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  unknown. 
That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death, 

And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own  ! 

We  sped  the  time  with  stories  old. 
Wrought  puzzles  out,  and  riddles  told. 

Or  stammered  from  our  school-book  lore 
‘‘  The  Chief  of  Gambia’s  golden  shore.” 

How  often  since,  when  all  the  land 
Was  clay  in  Slavery’s  shaping  hand. 

As  if  a far-blown  trumpet  stirred 
The  languorous  sin-sick  air,  I heard  : 

Does  not  the  voice  of  reason  cry, 

Claim  the  first  right  which  Nature  gave^ 


SNOW-BOUND 


13 


From  the  red  scourge  of  bondage  fly, 

Nor  deign  to  live  a burdened  slave  ! ” 

Our  father  rode  again  his  ride 
On  Memphremagog’s  wooded  side  ; 

Sat  down  again  to  moose  and  samp 
In  trapper's  hut  and  Indian  camp ; 

Lived  o’er  the  old  idyllic  ease 
Beneath  St.  Fran9ois’  hemlock-trees  ; 
Again  for  him  the  moonlight  shone 
On  Norman  cap  and  bodiced  zone ; 

Again  he  heard  the  violin  play 
Which  led  the  village  dance  away. 

And  mingled  in  its  merry  whirl 
The  grandam  and  the  laughing  girl. 

Or,  nearer  home,  our  steps  he  led 
Where  Salisbury’s  level  marshes  spread  ' 
Mile-wide  as  flies  the  laden  bee ; 

Where  merry  mowers,  hale  and  strong, 
Swept,  scythe  on  scythe,  their  swaths  along 
The  low  green  prairies  of  the  sea. 

We  shared  the  fishing  off  Boar’s  Head, 

And  round  the  rocky  Isles  of  Shoals 
The  hake-broil  on  the  drift-wood  coals  j 
The  chowder  on  the  sand-beach  made,  I 
Dipped  by  the  hungry,  steaming  hot. 

With  spoons  of  clam-shell  from  the  pot. 

We  heard  the  tales  of  witchcraft  old. 

And  dream  and  sign  and  marvel  told 
To  sleepy  listeners  as  they  lay 
Stretched  idly  on  the  salted  hay. 

Adrift  along  the  winding  shores. 

When  favoring  breezes  deigned  to  blow 


14 


SNOW-BOUND 


The  square  sail  of  the  gundelow 
And  idle  lay  the  useless  oars. 

Our  mother,  while  she  turned  her  wheel 
Or  run  the  new-knit  stocking-heel, 

Told  how  the  Indian  hordes  came  down 
At  midnight  on  Cocheco  town. 

And  how  her  own  great-uncle  bore 
His  cruel  scalp-mark  to  fourscore. 
Becalling,  in  her  fitting  phrase. 

So  rich  and  picturesque  and  free, 

(The  common  unrhymed  poetry 
Of  simple  life  and  country  ways,) 

The  story  of  her  early  days,  — 

She  made  us  welcome  to  her  home ; 

Old  hearths  grew  wide  to  give  us  room ; 
We  stole  with  her  a frightened  look 
At  the  gray  wizard's  conjuring-book. 

The  fame  whereof  went  far  and  wide 
Through  all  the  simple  country  side ; 

We  heard  the  hawks  at  twilight  play, 
The  boat-horn  on  Piscataqua, 

The  loon’s  weird  laughter  far  away ; 

We  fished  her  little  trout-brook,  knew 
What  flowers  in  wood  and  meadow  grew, 
What  sunny  hillsides  autumn-brown 
She  climbed  to  shake  the  ripe  nuts  down. 
Saw  where  in  sheltered  cove  and  bay 
The  ducks’  black  squadron  anchored  lay. 
And  heard  the  wild-geese  calling  loud 
Beneath  the  gray  November  cloud. 


SNOW-BOUND 


15 


Then,  haply,  with  a look  more  grave. 
And  soberer  tone,  some  tale  she  gave 
From  painful  SewePs  ancient  tome, 
Beloved  in  every  Quaker  home. 

Of  faith  fire-winged  by  martyrdom. 

Or  Chalkley’s  Journal,  old  and  quaint,  — 
Gentlest  of  skippers,  rare  sea-saint ! — 
Who,  when  the  dreary  calms  prevailed. 
And  water-butt  and  bread-cask  failed. 
And  cruel,  hungry  eyes  pursued 
His  portly  presence  mad  for  food, 

With  dark  hints  muttered  under  breath 
Of  casting  lots  for  life  or  death. 

Offered,  if  Heaven  withheld  supplies. 

To  be  himself  the  sacrifice. 

Then,  suddenly,  as  if  to  save 

The  good  man  from  his  living  grave, 

A ripple  on  the  water  grew, 

A school  of  porpoise  flashed  in  view. 

“ Take,  eat,”  he  said,  “ and  be  content ; 
These  fishes  in  my  stead  are  sent 
By  Him  who  gave  the  tangled  ram 
To  spare  the  child  of  Abraham.” 

Our  uncle,  innocent  of  bool^^ 

Was  ri^  in  lore  fields  and  brooks. 

The  ancient  teachers  never  dumb  ^ 
Of  nature’s  unhoused  lyceum. 

In  moons  and  tides  and  weather  wise. 

He  read  the  clouds  as  prophecies. 

And  foul  or  fair  could  well  divine. 

By  many  an  occult  hint  and  sign. 


16 


SNOW-BOUND 


Holding  the  cunning-warded  keys 
To  all  the  woodcraft  mysteries  ; 

Himself  to  Nature’s  heart  so  near 
That  all  her  voices  in  his  ear 
Of  beast  or- bird  had  meanings  clear, 

Like  Apollonius  of  old, 

Who  knew  the  tales  the  sparrows  told, 

Or  Hermes  who  interpreted 
What  the  sage  cranes  of  Nilus  said ; 

A simple,  guileless,  childlike  man. 

Content  to  live  where  life  began Y 
Strong  only  on  his  native  grounds. 

The  little  world  of  sights  and  sounds 
Whose  girdle  was  the  parish  bounds. 

Whereof  his  fondly  partial  pride 
The  common  features  magnified, 

As  Surrey  hills  to  mountains  grew 
In  White  of  Selborne’s  loving  view,  — 

He  told  how  teal  and  loon  he  shot, 

And  how  the  eagle’s  eggs  he  got. 

The  feats  on  pond  and  river  done. 

The  prodigies  of  rod  and  gun ; 

Till,  warming  with  the  tales  he  told. 

Forgotten  was  the  outside  cold. 

The  bitter  wind  unheeded  blew. 

From  ripening  corn  the  pigeons  flew. 

The  partridge  drummed  i’  the  wood,  the  mink 
Went  fishing  down  the  river-brink. 

In  fields  with  bean  or  clover  gay. 

The  woodchuck,  like  a hermit  gray. 

Peered  from  the  doorway  of  his  cell ; 

The  muskrat  plied  the  mason’s  trade, 


SNOW-BOUND 


17 


And  tier  by  tier  his  mud-walls  laid ; \ 

And  from  the  shagbark  overhead 

The  grizzled  squirrel  dropped  his  shell. 

Next,  the  dear  atint,  whose  smile  of  cheer 
And  voice  in  dreams  I see  and  hear,  — 
The  sweetest  woman  ^vgr  Fate- 
jPerverse  denied  a household  mate* 

Who,  lonely,  homeless,  not  the  less 
Found  peace  in  love’s  unselfishness. 

And  welcome  wheresoe’er  she  went, 

A calm  and  gracious  element. 

Whose  presence  seemed  the  sweet  income 
And  womanly  atmosphere  of  home,  — 
Called  up  her  girlhood  memories. 

The  huskings  and  the  apple-bees. 

The  sleigh-rides  and  the  summer  sails. 
Weaving  through  all  the  poor  details 
And  homespun  warp  of  circumstance 
A golden  woof-thread  of  romance. 

For  well  she  kept  her  genial  mood 
And  simple  faith  of  maidenhood  ; 

Before  her  still  a cloud-land  lay. 

The  mirage  loomed  across  her  way ; 

The  morning  dew,  that  dries  so  soon 
With  others,  glistened  at  her  noon  ; 
Through  years  of  toil  and  soil  and  care. 
From  glossy  tress  to  thin  gray  hair. 

All  unprofaned  she  held  apart 
The  virgin  fancies  of  the  heart. 

Be  shame  to  him  of  woman  born 
Who  hath  for  such  but  thought  of  scorn. 


18 


SNOW-BOUND 


There,  too,  our  ^.§oi§Jer  plied 
Her  evening  task  the  stand  beside ; 

A jull,  rich  nature,  free  to  trust, 

Truthful  and  almost  sternly  just. 
Impulsive,  earnest,  prompt  to  act. 

And  make  her  generous  thought  a fact. 
Keeping  with  many  a light  disguise 
The  secret  of  self-sacrifice. 

O heart  sore-tried  ! thou  hast  the  best 
That  Heaven  itself  could  give  thee,  — rest, 
Best  from  all  bitter  thoughts  and  things  I 
How  many  a poor  one’s  blessing  went 
With  thee  beneath  the  low  green  tent 
Whose  curtain  never  outward  swings ! 

As  one  who  held  herself  a part 
Of  all  she  saw,  and  let  her  heart 
Against  the  household  bosom  lean. 

Upon  the  motley-braided  mat 
Our  youngest  and  our  dearest  sat. 

Lifting  her  large,  sweet,  asking  eyes. 

Now  bathed  in  the  unfading  green 
And  holy  peace  of  Paradise. 

Oh,  looking  from  some  heavenly  hill. 

Or  from  the  shade  of  saintly  palms. 

Or  silver  reach  of  river  calms. 

Do  those  large  eyes  behold  me  still  ? 

With  me  one  little  year  ago  : — 

The  chill  weight  of  the  winter  snow 
For  months  upon  her  grave  has  lain  ; 
And  now,  when  summer  south-winds  blow 
And  brier  and  harebell  bloom  again. 


SNOW-BOUND 


19 


I tread  the  pleasant  paths  we  trod, 

I see  the  violet-sprinkled  sod 
Whereon  she  leaned,  too  frail  and  weak 
The  hillside  flowers  she  loved  to  seek, 

Yet  following  me  where’er  I went 
With  dark  eyes  full  of  love’s  content. 

The  birds  are  glad  ; the  brier-rose  Alls 
The  air  with  sweetness ; all  the  hills 
Stretch  green  to  June’s  unclouded  sky ; 

But  still  I wait  with  ear  and  eye 

For  something  gone  which  should  be  nigh, 

A loss  in  all  familiar  things. 

In  flower  that  blooms,  and  bird  that  sings. 
And  yet,  dear  heart ! remembering  thee, 

Am  I not  richer  than  of  old? 

Safe  in  thy  immortality. 

What  change  can  reach  the  wealth  I hold  ? 
What  chance  can  mar  the  pearl  and  gold 
Thy  love  hath  left  in  trust  with  me  ? 

And  while  in  life’s  late  afternoon. 

Where  cool  and  long  the  shadows  grow, 

I walk  to  meet  the  night  that  soon 
Shall  shape  and  shadow  overflow, 

I cannot  feel  that  thou  art  far, 

Since  near  at  need  the  angels  are  ; 

And  when  the  sunset  gates  unbar, 

Shall  I not  see  thee  waiting  stand, 

And,  white  against  the  evening  star. 

The  welcome  of  thy  beckoning  hand  ? 

Brisk  wieldfiGC  o.fjiha  bi£c^and  rule. 

The  master  of  the  district  school 


20 


SNOW-BOUND 


Held  at  the  fire  his  favored  place ; 

Its  warm  glow  lit  a laughing  face 
Fresh-hued  and  fair,  where  scarce  appeared 
The  uncertain  prophecy  of  beard. 

He  teased  the  mitten-blinded  cat, 

Played  cross-pins  on  my  uncle’s  hat, 

Sang  songs,  and  told  us  what  befalls 
In  classic  Dartmouth’s  college  halls. 

Born  the  wild  Northern  hills  among. 

From  whence  his  yeoman  father  wrung 
By  patient  toil  subsistence  scant, 

Not  competence  and  yet  not  want, 

He  early  gained  the  power  to  pay 
His  cheerful,  self-reliant  way ; 

Could  dofi  at  ease  his  scholar’s  gown 
To  peddle  wares  from  town  to  town  ; 

Or  through  the  long  vacation’s  reach 
In  lonely  lowland  districts  teach. 

Where  all  the  droll  experience  found 
At  stranger  hearths  in  boarding  round. 

The  moonlit  skater’s  keen  delight. 

The  sleigh-drive  through  the  frosty  night, 
The  rustic-party,  with  its  rough 
Accompaniment  of  blind-man’s-buff, 

And  whirling-opiate,  and  forfeits  paid, 

His  winter  task  a pastime  made. 

Happy  the  snow-locked  homes  wherein 
He  tuned  his  merry  violin. 

Or  played  the  athlete  in  the  barn. 

Or  held  the  good  dame’s  winding-yarn, 

Or  mirth-provoking  versions  told 
Of  classic  legends  rare  and  old, 


SNOW-BOUND 


21 


Wherein  the  scenes  of  Greece  and  Rome 
Had  all  the  commonplace  of  home, 

And  little  seemed  at  best  the  odds 
'Twixt  Yankee  pedlers  and  old  gods  ; 

Where  Pindus-born  Arachthus  took 
The  guise  of  any  grist-mill  brook, 

And  dread  Olympus  at  his  will 
Became  a huckleberry  hill. 

A careless  boy  that  night  he  seemed ; 

But  at  his  desk  he  had  the  look 
And  air  of  one  who  wisely  schemed. 

And  hostage  from  the  future  took 
In  trained  thought  and  lore  of  book. 
Large-brained,  clear-eyed,  of  such  as  he 
Shall  Freedom's  young  apostles  be. 

Who,  following  in  War's  bloody  trail. 

Shall  every  lingering  wrong  assail  ; 

All  chains  from  limb  and  spirit  strike. 

Uplift  the  black  and  white  alike  ; 

Scatter  before  their  swift  advance 
The  darkness  and  the  ignorance. 

The  pride,  the  lust,  the  squalid  sloth. 

Which  nurtured  Treason's  monstrous  growth. 
Made  murder  pastime,  and  the  hell 
Of  prison-torture  possible ; 

The  cruel  lie  of  caste  refute. 

Old  forms  remould,  and  substitute 
For  Slavery's  lash  the  freeman's  will. 

For  blind  routine,  wise-handed  skill ; 

A school-house  plant  on  every  hill, 

Stretching  in  radiate  nerve-lines  thence 
The  quick  wires  of  intelligence  ; 


22 


SNOW-BOUND 


Till  North  and  South  together  brought 
Shall  own  the  same  electric  thought, 

In  peace  a common  flag  salute, 

And,  side  by  side  in  labor’s  free 
And  unresentful  rivalry. 

Harvest  the  flelds  wherein  they  fought. 

Another  guest  that  winter  night 
Flashed  back  from  lustrous  eyes  the  light. 
Unmarked  by  time,  and  yet  not  young, 

The  honeyed  music  of  her  tongue 
And  words  of  meekness  scarcely  told 
A nature  passionate  and  bold, 

^^Strong,  self-concentred,  spurning  guide. 

Its  milder  features  dwarfed  beside 
Her  unbent  will’s  majestic  pride. 

She  sat  among  us,  at  the  best, 

/A.  not  unfeared,  half-welcome  guest,\ 
Hebuking  with  her  cultured  phrase  \ 

Our  homeliness  of  words  and  ways,  j 
A certain  pard-like,  treacherous  grace 
Swayed  the  lithe  limbs  and  dropped  the  lash. 
Lent  the  white  teeth  their  dazzling  flash  ; 
And  under  low  brows,  black  with  night, 
Kayed  out  at  times  a dangerous  light ; 

The  sharp  heat-lightnings  of  her  face 
Presaging  ill  to  him  whom  Fate 
Condemned  to  share  her  love  or  hate. 

^ A woman  tropical,  intense 
\ In  thought  and  act,  in  soul  and  sense, 

She  blended  in  a like  degree 
The  vixen  and  the  devotee. 


SNOW-BOUND 


23 


Revealing  with  each  freak  or  feint 
The  temper  of  Petruchio's  Kate, 

The  raptures  of  Siena's  saint. 

Her  tapering  hand  and  rounded  wrist 
Had  facile  power  to  form  a fist ; 

The  warm,  dark  languish  of  her  eyes 
Was  never  safe  from  wrath's  surprise. 

Brows  saintly  calm  and  lips  devout 
Knew  every  change  of  scowl  and  pout; 

And  the  sweet  voice  had  notes  more  high 
And  shrill  for  social  battle-cry. 

Since  then  what  old  cathedral  town 
Has  missed  her  pilgrim  staff  and  gown, 

What  convent-gate  has  held  its  lock 
Against  the  challenge  of  her  knock  ! 

Through  Smyrna's  plague-hushed  thoroughfares. 
Up  searset  Malta's  rocky  stairs, 

Gray  olive  slopes  of  hills  that  hem  ' 

Thy  tombs  and  shrines,  Jerusalem, 

Or  startling  on  her  desert  throne 
The  crazy  Queen  of  Lebanon 
With  claims  fantastic  as  her  own. 

Her  tireless  feet  have  held  their  way ; 

And  still,  unrestful,  bowed,  and  gray. 

She  watches  under  Eastern  skies. 

With  hope  each  day  renewed  and  fresh. 

The  Lord's  quick  coming  in  the  fiesh. 

Whereof  she  dreams  and  prophesies ! 

Where'er  her  troubled  path  may  be. 

The  Lord's  sweet  pity  with  her  go  I 


24 


SNOW-BOUND 


The  outward  wayward  life  we  see, 

The  hidden  springs  we  may  not  know. 

Nor  is  it  given  us  to  discern 

What  threads  the  fatal  sisters  spun, 
Through  what  ancestral  years  has  run 
The  sorrow  with  the  woman  born. 

What  forged  her  cruel  chain  of  moods, 

What  set  her  feet  in  solitudes 

And  held  the  love  within  her  mute, 

What  mingled  madness  in  the  blood, 

A life-long  discord  and  annoy. 

Water  of  tears  with  oil  of  joy. 

And  hid  within  the  folded  bud 
Perversities  of  flower  and  fruit. 

It  is  not  ours  to  separate 

The  tangled  skein  of  will  and  fate. 

To  show  what  metes  and  bounds  should  stand 
Upon  the  soul’s  debatable  land. 

And  between  choice  and  Providence 
Divide  the  circle  of  events ; 

But  He  who  knows  our  frame  is  just. 

Merciful  and  compassionate. 

And  full  of  sweet  assurances 
And  hope  for  all  the  language  is. 

That  He  remembereth  we  are  dust ! 

At  last  the  great  logs,  crumbling  low. 

Sent  out  a dull  and  duller  glow. 

The  bull’s-eye  watch  that  hung  in  view. 
Ticking  its  weary  circuit  through. 

Pointed  with  mutely  warning  sign 
Its  black  hand  to  the  hour  of  nine. 


SNOW-BOUND 


25 


That  sign  the  pleasant  circle  broke  : 

My  uncle  ceased  his  pipe  to  smoke, 
Knocked  from  its  bowl  the  refuse  gray, 
And  laid  it  tenderly  away  ; 

Then  roused  himself  to  safely  cover 
The  dull  red  brands  with  ashes  over. 

And  while,  with  care,  our  mother  laid 
The  work  aside,  her  steps  she  stayed 
One  moment,  seeking  to  express 
Her  grateful  sense  of  happiness 
For  food  and  shelter,  warmth  and  health. 
And  love’s  contentment  more  than  wealth, 
With  simple  wishes  (not  the  weak. 

Vain  prayers  which  no  fulfilment  seek. 

But  such  as  warm  the  generous  heart, 
O’er-prompt  to  do  with  Heaven  its  part) 
That  none  might  lack,  that  bitter  night. 
For  bread  and  clothing,  warmth  and  light. 


Within  our  beds  awhile  we  heard 
The  wind  that  round  the  gables  roared. 
With  now  and  then  a ruder  shock. 

Which  made  our  very  bedsteads  rock. 

We  heard  the  loosened  clapboards  tost. 
The  board-nails  snapping  in  the  frost ; 
And  on  us,  through  the  unplastered  wall. 
Felt  the  light  sifted  snow-flakes  fall. 

But  sleep  stole  on,  as  sleep  will  do 
When  hearts  are  light  and  life  is  new ; 
Faint  and  more  faint  the  murmurs  grew. 
Till  in  the  summer-land  of  dreams 
They  softened  to  the  sound  of  streams, 


26 


SNOW-BOUND 


Low  stir  of  leaves,  and  dip  of  oars, 

And  lapsing  waves  on  quiet  shores. 

Next  morn  we  wakened  with  the  shout 
Of  merry  voices  high  and  clear ; 

And  saw  the  teamsters  drawing  near 
To  break  the  drifted  highways  out. 

Down  the  long  hillside  treading  slow 
We  saw  the  half-buried  oxen  go. 

Shaking  the  snow  from  heads  uptost, 

Their  straining  nostrils  white  with  frost. 
Before  our  door  the  straggling  train 
Drew  up,  an  added  team  to  gain. 

The  elders  threshed  their  hands  a-cold. 
Passed,  with  the  cider-mug,  their  jokes 
From  lip  to  lip ; the  younger  folks 
Down  the  loose  snow-banks,  wrestling,  rolled. 
Then  toiled  again  the  cavalcade 

O’er  windy  hill,  through  clogged  ravine. 
And  woodland  paths  that  wound  between 
Low  drooping  pine-boughs  winter-weighed. 
From  every  barn  a team  afoot. 

At  every  house  a new  recruit. 

Where,  drawn  by  Nature’s  subtlest  law, 
Haply  the  watchful  young  men  saw 
Sweet  doorway  pictures  of  the  curls 
And  curious  eyes  of  merry  girls. 

Lifting  their  hands  in  mock  defence 
Against  the  snow-ball’s  compliments, 

And  reading  in  each  missive  tost 
The  charm  with  Eden  never  lost. 


SNOW-BOUND 


27 


We  heard  once  more  the  sleigh-bells’  sound; 

And,  following  where  the  teamsters  led, 
The  wise  old  Doctor  went  his  round, 

Just  pausing  at  our  door  to  say. 

In  the  brief  autocratic  way 
Of  one  who,  prompt  at  Duty’s  call. 

Was  free  to  urge  her  claim  on  all. 

That  some  poor  neighbor  sick  abed 
At  night  our  mother’s  aid  would  need. 

For,  one  in  generous  thought  and  deed. 
What  mattered  in  the  sufferer’s  sight. 

The  Quaker  matron’s  inward  light, 

The  Doctor’s  mail  of  Calvin’s  creed  ? 

All  hearts  confess  the  saints  elect 
Who,  twain  in  faith,  in  love  agree. 

And  melt  not  in  an  acid  sect 
The  Christian  pearl  of  charity ! 

So  days  went  on : a week  had  passed 
Since  the  great  world  was  heard  from  last. 
The  Almanac  we  studied  o’er, 

Bead  and  reread  our  little  store 
Of  books  and  pamphlets,  scarce  a score ; 

One  harmless  novel,  mostly  hid 
From  younger  eyes,  a book  forbid. 

And  poetry,  (or  good  or  bad, 

A single  book  was  all  we  had,) 

Where  Ellwood’s  meek,  drab-skirted  Muse, 
A stranger  to  the  heathen  Nine, 

Sang,  with  a somewhat  nasal  whine, 

The  wars  of  David  and  the  Jews. 

At  last  the  floundering  carrier  bore 
The  village  paper  to  our  door. 


28 


SNOW-BOUND 


Lo ! broadenitig  outward  as  we  read, 

To  warmer  zones  the  horizon  spread ; 

In  panoramic  length  unrolled 
We  saw  the  marvels  that  it  told. 

Before  us  passed  the  painted  Creeks, 
And  daft  McGregor  on  his  raids 
In  Costa  Eica’s  everglades. 

And  up  Taygetos  winding  slow 
Eode  Ypsilanti’s  Mainote  Greeks, 

A Turk’s  head  at  each  saddle-how  I 
Welcome  to  us  its  week-old  news, 

Its  corner  for  the  rustic  Muse, 

Its  monthly  gauge  of  snow  and  rain, 
Its  record,  mingling  in  a breath 
The  wedding  bell  and  dirge  of  death  : 
Jest,  anecdote,  and  love-lorn  tale. 

The  latest  culprit  sent  to  jail ; 

Its  hue  and  cry  of  stolen  and  lost, 

Its  vendue  sales  and  goods  at  cost. 

And  traffic  calling  loud  for  gain. 

We  felt  the  stir  of  hall  and  street. 

The  pulse  of  life  that  round  us  beat ; 
The  chill  embargo  of  the  snow 
Was  melted  in  the  genial  glow ; 

Wide  swung  again  our  ice-locked  door. 
And  all  the  world  was  ours  once  more  1 

Clasp,  Angel  of  the  backward  look 
And  folded  wings  of  ashen  gray 
And  voice  of  echoes  far  away. 

The  brazen  covers  of  thy  book  ; 

The  weird  palimpsest  old  and  vast, 


SNOW-BOUND 


29 


Wherein  thou  hid’st  the  spectral  past ; 
Where,  closely  mingling,  pale  and  glow 
The  characters  of  joy  and  woe ; 

The  monographs  of  outlived  years, 

Or  smile-illumed  or  dim  with  tears. 

Green  hills  of  life  that  slope  to  death. 
And  haunts  of  home,  whose  vistaed  trees 
Shade  off  to  mournful  cypresses 
With  the  white  amaranths  underneath. 
Even  while  I look,  I can  but  heed 
The  restless  sands’  incessant  fall. 
Importunate  hours  that  hours  succeed. 
Each  clamorous  with  its  own  sharp  need, 
And  duty  keeping  pace  with  all. 

Shut  down  and  clasp  the  heavy  lids ; 

I hear  again  the  voice  that  bids 
The  dreamer  leave  his  dream  midway 
For  larger  hopes  and  graver  fears : 

Life  greatens  in  these  later  years, 

The  century’s  aloe  flowers  to-day ! 

Yet,  haply,  in  some  lull  of  life. 

Some  Truce  of  God  which  breaks  its  strife. 
The  worldling’s  eyes  shall  gather  dew. 
Dreaming  in  throngful  city  ways 
Of  winter  joys  his  boyhood  knew ; 

And  dear  and  early  friends  — the  few 
Who  yet  remain  — shall  pause  to  view 
These  Flemish  pictures  of  old  days ; 

Sit  with  me  by  the  homestead  hearth. 

And  stretch  the  hands  of  memory  forth 
To  warm  them  at  the  wood-fire’s  blaze  I 


30 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY 


And  thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknown 
Shall  greet  me  like  the  odors  blown 
From  unseen  meadows  newly  mown, 

Or  lilies  floating  in  some  pond, 
Wood-fringed,  the  wayside  gaze  beyond  ; 
The  traveller  owns  the  grateful  sense 
Of  sweetness  near,  he  knows  not  whence. 
And,  pausing,  takes  with  forehead  bare 
The  benediction  of  the  air. 


LESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man. 


Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  ! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons. 

And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes ; 

With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face. 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace  ; 
From  my  heart  I give  thee  joy,  — 

I was  once  a barefoot  boy ! 

Prince  thou  art,  — the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 

Let  the  million-dollared  ride  ! 

Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side. 

Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye,  — 

Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy : i 


Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy ! 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY 


THE  BAEEFOOT  BOY 


31 


Oh  for  boyhood’s  painless  play, 

Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor’s  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools. 

Of  the  wild  bee’s  morning  chase. 

Of  the  wild-flower’s  time  and  place. 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood ; 

How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell. 

How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell. 

And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well ; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young. 

How  the  oriole’s  nest  is  hung ; 

Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow. 

Where  the  freshest  berries  grow. 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine. 
Where  the  wood-grape’s  clusters  shine ; 
Of  the  black  wasp’s  cunning  way. 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay. 

And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans  ! 

For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks. 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ; 

Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 

Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks. 

Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 

Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy ! 

Oh  for  boyhood’s  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I heard  or  saw. 

Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 


32 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY 


I was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees ; 

For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 

Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade ; 

For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone  ; 

Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall. 

Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 

Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond. 

Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 

Apples  of  Hesperides ! 

Still  as  my  horizon  grew. 

Larger  grew  my  riches  too ; 

All  the  world  I saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a complex  Chinese  toy,  ^ 
Fashioned  for  a barefoot  boy  1 


Kjh  for  festal  dainties  spread. 

Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread; 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood. 

On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude  ! 
O’er  me,  like  a regal  tent. 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent. 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold. 
Looped  in  many  a wind-swung  fold ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs’  orchestra ; 

And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir. 

Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY 


I was  monarch : pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy ! 


Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew ; 

Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat : 

All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 

Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod. 

Like  a colt’s  for  work  be  shod. 

Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil. 

Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil : 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground ; 

Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  ! that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy ! 


^ Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 

\ Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can ! 


TO  MY  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER 


AN  EPISTLE  NOT  AFTER  THE  MANNER  OF 
HORACE 

These  lines  were  addressed  to  my  worthy  friend  Joshua 
Coffin,  teacher,  historian,  and  antiquarian.  He  was  one 
of  the  twelve  persons  who  with  William  Lloyd  Garrison 
formed  the  first  anti-slavery  society  in  Hew  England. 

OLD  friend,  kind  friend  I lightly  down 

Drop  time’s  snow-flakes  on  thy  crown  ! 
Never  be  thy  shadow  less, 

Never  fail  thy  cheerfulness ; 

Care,  that  kills  the  cat,  may  plough 
Wrinkles  in  the  miser’s  brow, 

Deepen  envy’s  spiteful  frown, 

Draw  the  mouths  of  bigots  down, 

Plague  ambition’s  dream,  and  sit 
Heavy  on  the  hypocrite. 

Haunt  the  rich  man’s  door,  and  ride 
In  the  gilded  coach  of  pride ; — 

Let  the  fiend  pass  ! — what  can  he 
Find  to  do  with  such  as  thee  ? 

Seldom  comes  that  evil  guest 
Where  the  conscience  lies  at  rest, 

And  brown  health  and  quiet  wit 
Smiling  on  the  threshold  sit. 

I,  the  urchin  unto  whom, 

In  that  smoked  and  dingy  room. 

Where  the  district  gave  thee  rule 
O’er  its  ragged  winter  school, 


TO  MY  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER  35 


Thou  didst  teach  the  mysteries 
Of  those  weary  A B C’s,  — 

Where,  to  fill  the  every  pause 
Of  thy  wise  and  learned  saws, 
Through  the  cracked  and  crazy  wall 
Came  the  cradle-rock  and  squall. 
And  the  goodman’s  voice,  at  strife 
With  his  shrill  and  tipsy  wife,  — 
Luring  us  by  stories  old, 

With  a comic  unction  told. 

More  than  by  the  eloquence 
Of  terse  birchen  arguments 
(Doubtful  gain,  I fear),  to  look 
With  complacence  on  a book ! — 
Where  the  genial  pedagogue 
Half  forgot  his  rogues  to  flog, 

Citing  tale  or  apologue. 

Wise  and  merry  in  its  drift 
As  was  Phaedrus’  twofold  gift. 

Had  the  little  rebels  known  it, 
Risum  et  prudentiam  monet ! 

I,  — the  man  of  middle  years. 

In  whose  sable  locks  appears 
Many  a warning  fleck  of  gray,  — 
Looking  back  to  that  far  day. 

And  thy  primal  lessons,  feel 
Grateful  smiles  my  lips  unseal. 

As,  remembering  thee,  I blend 
Olden  teacher,  present  friend, 

Wise  with  antiquarian  search. 

In  the  scrolls  of  State  and  Church : 
Named  on  history’s  title-page. 
Parish-clerk  and  justice  sage ; 


36  TO  MY  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER 


For  the  ferule’s  wholesome  awe 
Wielding  now  the  sword  of  law. 

Threshing  Time’s  neglected  sheaves, 
Gathering  up  the  scattered  leaves 
Which  the  wrinkled  sibyl  cast 
Careless  from  her  as  she  passed,  — 
Twofold  citizen  art  thou, 

Freeman  of  the  past  and  now. 

He  who  bore  thy  name  of  old 
Midway  in  the  heavens  did  hold 
Over  Gibeon  moon  and  sun ; 

Thou  hast  bidden  them  backward  run 
Of  to-day  the  present  ray 
Flinging  over  yesterday ! 

Let  the  busy  ones  deride 
What  I deem  of  right  thy  pride : 

Let  the  fools  their  treadmills  grind. 
Look  not  forward  nor  behind, 

Shuffle  in  and  wriggle  out. 

Veer  with  every  breeze  about, 
Turning  like  a windmill  sail. 

Or  a dog  that  seeks  his  tail ; 

Let  them  laugh  to  see  thee  fast 
Tabernacled  in  the  Past, 

Working  out  with  eye  and  lip 
Riddles  of  old  penmanship. 

Patient  as  Belzoni  there 
Sorting  out,  with  loving  care. 
Mummies  of  dead  questions  stripped 
From  their  sevenfold  manuscript  I 


TO  MY  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER 

Dabbling,  in  their  noisy  way, 

In  the  puddles  of  to-day, 

Little  know  they  of  that  vast 
Solemn  ocean  of  the  past, 

On  whose  margin,  wreck-bespread. 
Thou  art  walking  with  the  dead, 
Questioning  the  stranded  years. 
Waking  smiles  by  turns,  and  tears, 
As  thou  callest  up  again 
Shapes  the  dust  has  long  o’erlain,  — 
Fair-haired  woman,  bearded  man. 
Cavalier  and  Puritan  ; 

In  an  age  whose  eager  view 
Seeks  but  present  things,  and  new, 
Mad  for  party,  sect  and  gold, 
Teaching  reverence  for  the  old. 

On  that  shore,  with  fowler’s  tact. 
Coolly  bagging  fact  on  fact, 

Naught  amiss  to  thee  can  float. 

Tale,  or  song,  or  anecdote ; 

Village  gossip,  centuries  old, 
Scandals  by  our  grandams  told. 
What  the  pilgrim’s  table  spread, 
Where  he  lived,  and  whom  he  wed. 
Long-drawn  bill  of  wine  and  beer 
For  his  ordination  cheer. 

Or  the  flip  that  wellnigh  made 
Glad  his  funeral  cavalcade  ; 

Weary  prose,  and  poet’s  lines. 
Flavored  by  their  age,  like  wines. 
Eulogistic  of  some  quaint, 

Doubtful,  Puritanic  saint ; 


37 


38  TO  MY  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER 

Lays  that  quickened  husking  jigs, 

Jests  that  shook  grave  periwigs, 

When  the  parson  had  his  jokes 
And  his  glass,  like  other  folks  ; 
Sermons  that,  for  mortal  hours. 

Taxed  our  fathers’  vital  powers. 

As  the  long  nineteenthlies  poured 
Downward  from  the  sounding-board. 
And,  for  fire  of  Pentecost, 

Touched  their  beards  December’s  frost. 

Time  is  hastening  on,  and  we 
What  our  fathers  are  shall  be,  — 
Shadow-shapes  of  memory ! 

Joined  to  that  vast  multitude 
Where  the  great  are  but  the  good. 

And  the  mind  of  strength  shall  prove 
Weaker  than  the  heart  of  love ; 

Pride  of  graybeard  wisdom  less 
Than  the  infant’s  guilelessness. 

And  his  song  of  sorrow  more 
Than  the  crown  the  Psalmist  wore ! 
Who  shall  then,  with  pious  zeal. 

At  our  moss-grown  thresholds  kneel, 
From  a stained  and  stony  page 
Reading  to  a careless  age. 

With  a patient  eye  like  thine. 

Prosing  tale  and  limping  line, 

Names  and  words  the  hoary  rime 
Of  the  Past  has  made  sublime  ? 

Who  shall  work  for  us  as  well 
The  antiquarian’s  miracle  ? 


TO  MY  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER  39 


Who  to  seeming  life  recall 
Teacher  grave  and  pupil  small  ? 
Who  shall  give  to  thee  and  me 
Freeholds  in  futurity? 

Well,  whatever  lot  be  mine, 

Long  and  happy  days  be  thine, 

Ere  thy  full  and  honored  age 
Dates  of  time  its  latest  page  I 
Squire  for  master.  State  for  school, 
Wisely  lenient,  live  and  rule; 

Over  grown-up  knave  and  rogue 
Play  the  watchful  pedagogue ; 

Or,  while  pleasure  smiles  on  duty, 
At  the  call  of  youth  and  beauty. 
Speak  for  them  the  spell  of  law 
Which  shall  bar  and  bolt  withdraw. 
And  the  flaming  sword  remove 
From  the  Paradise  of  Love. 

Still,  with  undimmed  eyesight,  pore 
Ancient  tome  and  record  o’er ; 

Still  thy  week-day  lyrics  croon. 
Pitch  in  church  the  Sunday  tune. 
Showing  something,  in  thy  part. 

Of  the  old  Puritanic  art. 

Singer  after  Sternhold’s  heart ! 

In  thy  pew,  for  many  a year. 
Homilies  from  Oldbug  hear. 

Who  to  wit  like  that  of  South, 

And  the  Syrian’s  golden  mouth. 
Doth  the  homely  pathos  add 
Which  the  pilgrim  preachers  had ; 


40 


m SCHOOL-DAYS 


Breaking,  like  a child  at  play, 

Gilded  idols  of  the  day, 

Cant  of  knave  and  pomp  of  fool 
Tossing  with  his  ridicule, 

Yet,  in  earnest  or  in  jest, 

Ever  keeping  truth  abreast. 

And,  when  thou  art  called,  at  last, 

To  thy  townsmen  of  the  past, 

Hot  as  stranger  shalt  thou  come ; 
Thou  shalt  find  thyself  at  home 
With  the  little  and  the  big, 

Woollen  cap  and  periwig, 

Madam  in  her  high-laced  ruff. 

Goody  in  her  home-made  stuff,  — 
Wise  and  simple,  rich  and  poor. 

Thou  hast  known  them  all  before  I 

IN  SCHOOL-DAYS 

STILL  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 
A ragged  beggar  sleeping ; 

Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow, 

And  blackberry-vines  are  creeping. 

Within,  the  master’s  desk  is  seen. 

Deep  scarred  by  raps  official ; 

The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats. 

The  jack-knife’s  carved  initial ; 

The  charcoal  frescos  on  its  wall ; 

Its  door’s  worn  sill,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 
Went  storming  out  to  playing  1 


IN  SCHOOL-DAYS 


41 


Long  years  ago  a winter  sun 
Shone  oyer  it  at  setting ; 

Lit  up  its  western  window-panes, 

And  low  eaves’  icy  fretting. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls, 

And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving. 

Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delayed 
When  all  the  school  were  leaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 
Her  childish  favor  singled : 

His  cap  pulled  low  upon  a face 

Where  pride  and  shame  were  mingled. 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 
To  right  and  left,  he  lingered  ; — 

As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 

The  blue-checked  apron  fingered. 

He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes  ; he  felt 
The  soft  hand’s  light  caressing. 

And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice. 

As  if  a fault  confessing. 

“ I ’m  sorry  that  I spelt  the  Word : 

I hate  to  go  above  you. 

Because,”  — the  brown  eyes  lower  fell,  — 
“ Because,  you  see,  I love  you ! ” 

Still  memory  to  a gray-haired  man 
That  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 


42 


MY  PLAYMATE 


Dear  girl ! the  grasses  on  her  grave 
Have  forty  years  been  growing  1 

He  lives  to  learn,  in  life’s  hard  school, 
How  few  who  pass  above  him 
Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss, 
Like  her,  — because  they  love  him. 


MY  PLAYMATE 

The  pines  were  dark  on  Eamoth  hill. 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low  ; 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 

The  orchard  birds  sang  clear  ; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 
My  playmate  left  her  home. 

And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring, 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 

She  laid  her  hand  in  mine  : 

What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 
Who  fed  her  father’s  kine  ? 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May: 

The  constant  years  told  o’er 


MY  PLAYMATE 


43 


Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns, 
But  she  came  back  no  more, 

I walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 
Of  uneventful  years  ; 

Still  o'er  and  o’er  I sow  the  spring 
And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 
Her  summer  roses  blow  ; 

The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 
Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewelled  hands 
She  smooths  her  silken  gown,  — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 
The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill. 

And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make  sweet 
The  woods  of  FoUymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 

The  bird  builds  in  the  tree. 

The  dark  pines  sing  on  Bamoth  hill 
The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

I wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 

And  how  the  old  time  seems,  — 

li  ever  the  pines  of  Bamoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 


44 


MEMORIES 


I see  her  face,  I hear  her  voice ; 

Does  she  remember  mine  ? 

And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 
Who  fed  her  father’s  kine  ? 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 
For  other  eyes  than  ours,  — 

That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 

And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 

O playmate  in  the  golden  time  \ 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green. 

Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o’er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and  fern 
A sweeter  memory  blow  ; 

And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 
The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  moaning  like  the  sea,  — 

The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 
Between  myself  and  thee  I 

MEMORIES 

It  was  not  without  thought  and  deliberation,’’  Whittier’s 
biographer  writes,  “ that  in  1888  he  directed  this  poem  to  be 
placed  at  the  head  of  his  Poems  Subjective  and  Reminiscent. 
He  had  never  before  publicly  acknowledged  how  much  of 
his  heart  was  wrapped  up  in  this  delightful  play  of  poetic 


MEMOKIES 


45 


fancy.  The  poem  was  written  in  1841,  and  although  the 
romance  it  embalms  lies  far  back  of  this  date,  possibly  there 
is  a heart  still  beating  which  fully  understands  its  meaning. 
The  biographer  can  do  no  more  than  make  this  suggestion, 
which  has  the  sanction  of  the  poet’s  explicit  word.  To  a 
friend  who  told  him  that  Memories  was  her  favorite  poem, 
he  said,  ‘ I love  it  too ; but  I hardly  knew  whether  to  pub- 
lish it,  it  was  so  personal  and  near  my  heart.’  ” 

A BEAUTIFUL  and  happy  girl, 

With  step  as  light  as  summer  air, 

Eyes  glad  with  smiles,  and  brow  of  pearl, 
Shadowed  by  many  a careless  curl 
Of  unconfined  and  fiowing  hair  ; 

A seeming  child  in  everything. 

Save  thoughtful  brow  and  ripening  charms, 

As  Nature  wears  the  smile  of  Spring 
When  sinking  into  Summer's  arms. 

A mind  rejoicing  in  the  light 
Which  melted  through  its  graceful  bower, 

Leaf  after  leaf,  dew-moist  and  bright, 

And  stainless  in  its  holy  white. 

Unfolding  like  a morning  flower : 

A heart,  which,  like  a fine-toned  lute. 

With  every  breath  of  feeling  woke. 

And,  even  when  the  tongue  was  mute. 

From  eye  and  lip  in  music  spoke. 

How  thrills  once  more  the  lengthening  chain 
Of  memory,  at  the  thought  of  thee ! 

Old  hopes  which  long  in  dust  have  lain. 

Old  dreams,  come  thronging  back  again. 

And  boyhood  lives  again  in  me ; 


46 


MEMORIES 


I feel  its  glow  upon  my  cheek, 

Its  fulness  of  the  heart  is  mine, 

As  when  I leaned  to  hear  thee  speak. 

Or  raised  my  doubtful  eye  to  thine. 

I hear  again  thy  low  replies, 

I feel  thy  arm  within  my  own. 

And  timidly  again  uprise 
The  fringed  lids  of  hazel  eyes. 

With  soft  brown  tresses  overblown. 

Ah  ! memories  of  sweet  summer  eves, 

Of  moonlit  wave  and  willowy  way. 

Of  stars  and  flowers,  and  dewy  leaves. 

And  smiles  and  tones  more  dear  than  they  I 

Ere  this,  thy  quiet  eye  hath  smiled 
My  picture  of  thy  youth  to  see. 

When,  half  a woman,  half  a child. 

Thy  very  artlessness  beguiled. 

And  folly’s  self  seemed  wise  in  thee ; 

I too  can  smile,  when  o’er  that  hour 
The  lights  of  memory  backward  stream, 

Yet  feel  the  while  that  manhood’s  power 
Is  vainer  than  my  boyhood’s  dream. 

Years  have  passed  on,  and  left  their  trace, 

Of  graver  care  and  deeper  thought ; 

And  unto  me  the  calm,  cold  face 
Of  manhood,  and  to  thee  the  grace 
Of  woman’s  pensive  beauty  brought. 

More  wide,  perchance,  for  blame  than  praise, 
The  school-boy’s  humble  name  has  flown  ; 


MEMORIES 


47 


Thine,  in  the  green  and  quiet  ways 
Of  unobtrusive  goodness  known. 

And  wider  yet  in  thought  and  deed 
Diverge  our  pathways,  one  in  youth ; 
Thine  the  Genevan’s  sternest  creed, 

While  answers  to  my  spirit’s  need 
The  Derby  dalesman’s  simple  truth. 

For  thee,  the  priestly  rite  and  prayer. 

And  holy  day,  and  solemn  psalm ; 

For  me,  the  silent  reverence  where 
My  brethren  gather,  slow  and  calm. 

Yet  hath  thy  spirit  left  on  me  * 

An  impress  Time  has  worn  not  out, 
And  something  of  myself  in  thee, 

A shadow  from  the  past,  I see. 

Lingering,  even  yet,  thy  way  about ; 
Not  wholly  can  the  heart  unlearn 
That  lesson  of  its  better  hours. 

Not  yet  has  Time’s  dull  footstep  worn 
To  common  dust  that  path  of  flowers. 

Thus,  while  at  times  before  our  eyes 
The  shadows  melt,  and  fall  apart. 

And,  smiling  through  them,  round  us  lies 
The  warm  light  of  our  morning  skies,  — 
The  Indian  Summer  of  the  heart  I 
In  secret  sympathies  of  mind. 

In  founts  of  feeling  which  retain 
Their  pure,  fresh  flow,  we  yet  may  find 
Our  early  dreams  not  wholly  vain ! 


TELLING  THE  BEES 


A remarkable  custom,  brought  from  the  Old  Country, 
formerly  prevailed  in  the  rural  districts  of  New  England. 
On  the  death  of  a member  of  the  family,  the  bees  were 
at  once  informed  of  the  event,  and  their  hives  dressed  in 
mourning.  This  ceremonial  was  supposed  to  be  necessary 
to  prevent  the  swarms  from  leaving  their  hives  and  seek- 
ing a new  home.  [The  scene  is  minutely  that  of  the  Whit- 
tier homestead.] 

HEKE  is  the  place  ; right  over  the  hill 
Buns  the  path  I took ; 

You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall  still, 

And  the  stepping-stones  in  the  shallow  brook. 

There  is  the  house,  with  the  gate  red-barred, 

And  the  poplars  tall ; 

And  the  barn’s  brown  length,  and  the  cattle-yard, 
And  the  white  horns  tossing  above  the  wall. 

There  are  the  beehives  ranged  in  the  sun ; 

And  down  by  the  brink 

Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers,  weed-overrun, 
Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

A year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes. 

Heavy  and  slow ; 

And  the  same  rose  blows,  and  the  same  sun  glows. 
And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a year  ago. 

There ’s  the  same  sweet  clover-smell  in  the  breeze  ; 
And  the  June  sun  warm 


TELLING  THE  BEES 


49 


Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees, 

Setting,  as  then,  over  Fernside  farm, 

I mind  me  how  with  a lover’s  care 
From  my  Sunday  coat 

I brushed  off  the  burrs,  and  smoothed  my  hair. 
And  cooled  at  the  brookside  my  brow  and  throat. 

Since  we  parted,  a month  had  passed,  — 

To  love,  a year ; 

Down  through  the  beeches  I looked  at  last 
On  the  little  red  gate  and  the  well-sweep  near. 

I can  see  it  all  now,  — the  slantwise  rain 
Of  light  through  the  leaves. 

The  sundown’s  blaze  on  her  window-pane. 

The  bloom  of  her  roses  under  the  eaves. 

Just  the  same  as  a month  before,  — 

The  house  and  the  trees. 

The  barn’s  brown  gable,  the  vine  by  the  door,  — 
Nothing  changed  but  the  hives  of  bees. 

Before  them,  under  the  garden  wall. 

Forward  and  back. 

Went  drearily  singing  the  chore-girl  small, 
Draping  each  hive  with  a shred  of  black. 

Trembling,  I listened  : the  summer  sun 
Had  the  chill  of  snow ; 

For  I knew  she  was  telling  the  bees  of  one 
Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must  go ! 


50 


BURNS 


Then  I said  to  myself,  “ My  Mary  weeps 
For  the  dead  to-day  : 

Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 
The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age  away.” 

But  her  dog  whined  low ; on  the  doorway  sill, 
With  his  cane  to  his  chin, 

The  old  man  sat ; and  the  chore-girl  still 
Sung  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and  in. 

And  the  song  she  was  singing  ever  since 
In  my  ear  sounds  on : — 

Stay  at  home,  pretty  bees,  fly  not  hence  I 
Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gone ! ” 

BURNS 

ON  RECEIVING  A SPRIG  OF  HEATHER  IN 
BLOSSOM 

NO  more  these  simple  flowers  belong 
To  Scottish  maid  and  lover  ; 

Sown  in  the  common  soil  of  song. 

They  bloom  the  wide  world  over. 

In  smiles  and  tears,  in  sun  and  showers, 

The  minstrel  and  the  heather, 

The  deathless  singer  and  the  flowers 
He  sang  of  live  together. 

Wild  heather-bells  and  Robert  Burns ! 

The  moorland  flower  and  peasant  I 


BURNS 


51 


How,  at  their  mention,  memory  turns 
Her  pages  old  and  pleasant  I 

The  gray  sky  wears  again  its  gold 
And  purple  of  adorning. 

And  manhood’s  noonday  shadows  hold 
The  dews  of  boyhood’s  morning. 

The  dews  that  washed  the  dust  and  soil 
From  off  the  wings  of  pleasure. 

The  sky,  that  flecked  the  ground  of  toil 
With  golden  threads  of  leisure. 

I call  to  mind  the  summer  day. 

The  early  harvest  mowing, 

The  sky  with  sun  and  clouds  at  play. 
And  flowers  with  breezes  blowing. 

I hear  the  blackbird  in  the  corn. 

The  locust  in  the  haying ; 

And,  like  the  fabled  hunter’s  horn, 

Old  tunes  my  heart  is  playing. 

How  oft  that  day,  with  fond  delay, 

I sought  the  maple’s  shadow. 

And  sang  with  Burns  the  hours  away. 
Forgetful  of  the  meadow ! 

Bees  hummed,  birds  twittered,  overhead 
I heard  the  squirrels  leaping. 

The  good  dog  listened  while  I read, 

And  wagged  his  tail  in  keeping. 


52 


BURNS 


I watched  him  while  in  sportive  mood 
I read  “ The  Twa  Dogs'  " story, 

And  half  believed  he  understood 
The  poet’s  allegory. 

Sweet  day,  sweet  songs ! The  golden  hours 
Grew  brighter  for  that  singing, 

From  brook  and  bird  and  meadow  flowers 
A dearer  welcome  bringing. 

New  light  on  home-seen  Nature  beamed, 
New  glory  over  Woman ; 

And  daily  life  and  duty  seemed 
No  longer  poor  and  common. 

I woke  to  find  the  simple  truth 
Of  fact  and  feeling  better 

Than  all  the  dreams  that  held  my  youth 
A still  repining  debtor : 

That  Nature  gives  her  handmaid.  Art, 

The  themes  of  sweet  discoursing ; 

The  tender  idyls  of  the  heart 
In  every  tongue  rehearsing. 

Why  dream  of  lands  of  gold  and  pearl, 

Of  loving  knight  and  lady. 

When  farmer  boy  and  barefoot  girl 
Were  wandering  there  already? 

I saw  through  all  familiar  things 
The  romance  underlying ; 


BURNS 


53 


The  joys  and  griefs  that  plume  the  wings 
Of  Fancy  skyward  flying. 

I saw  the  same  blithe  day  return, 

The  same  sweet  fall  of  even, 

That  rose  on  wooded  Craigie-burn, 

And  sank  on  crystal  Devon. 

I matched  with  Scotland’s  heathery  hills 
The  sweetbrier  and  the  clover ; 

With  Ayr  and  Doon,  my  native  rills. 
Their  wood  hymns  chanting  over. 

O’er  rank  and  pomp,  as  he  had  seen, 

I saw  the  Man  uprising ; 

No  longer  common  or  unclean. 

The  child  of  God’s  baptizing ! 

With  clearer  eyes  I saw  the  worth 
Of  life  among  the  lowly ; 

The  Bible  at  his  Cotter’s  hearth 
Had  made  my  own  more  holy. 

And  if  at  times  an  evil  strain. 

To  lawless  love  appealing, 

Broke  in  upon  the  sweet  refrain 
Of  pure  and  healthful  feeling, 

It  died  upon  the  eye  and  ear. 

No  inward  answer  gaining ; 

No  heart  had  I to  see  or  hear 
The  discord  and  the  staining. 


54 


BJJRm 


Let  those  who  never  erred  forget 
His  worth,  in  vain  bewailings ; 

Sweet  Soul  of  Song  ! I own  my  debt 
Uncancelled  by  his  failings ! 

Lament  who  will  the  ribald  line 
Which  tells  his  lapse  from  duty, 

How  kissed  the  maddening  lips  of  wine 
Or  wanton  ones  of  beauty ; 

But  think,  while  falls  that  shade  between 
The  erring  one  and  Heaven, 

That  he  who  loved  like  Magdalen, 

Like  her  may  be  forgiven. 

Not  his  the  song  whose  thunderous  chime 
Eternal  echoes  render ; 

The  mournful  Tuscan's  haunted  rhyme. 
And  Milton's  starry  splendor ! 

But  who  his  human  heart  has  laid 
To  Nature's  bosom  nearer  ? 

Who  sweetened  toil  like  him,  or  paid 
To  love  a tribute  dearer  ? 

Through  all  his  tuneful  art,  how  strong 
The  human  feeling  gushes ! 

The  very  moonlight  of  his  song 
Is  warm  with  smiles  and  blushes  ! 

Give  lettered  pomp  to  teeth  of  Time, 

So  “ Bonnie  Boon  " but  tarry ; 

Blot  out  the  Epic's  stately  rhyme. 

But  spare  his  Highland  Mary  1 


TO  MY  SISTER 


WITH  A COPY  OF  “THE  SUPERNATURALISM  OF 
NEW  ENGLAND  ” 

The  work  referred  to  was  a series  of  papers  under  this 
title,  contributed  to  the  Democratic  Review  and  afterward 
collected  into  a volume,  in  which  I noted  some  of  the  super- 
stitions and  folklore  prevalent  in  New  England.  The 
volume  has  not  been  kept  in  print,  but  most  of  its  contents 
are  distributed  in  my  Literary  Recreations  and  Miscellanies 
[now  scattered  in  volumes  v.  and  vi.  of  the  Riverside  edi- 
tion]. 

Dear  sister  ! while  the  wise  and  sage 
Turn  coldly  from  my  playful  page, 

And  count  it  strange  that  ripened  age 
Should  stoop  to  boyhood’s  folly ; 

I know  that  thou  wilt  judge  aright 
Of  all  which  makes  the  heart  more  light, 

Or  lends  one  star-gleam  to  the  night 
Of  clouded  Melancholy. 

Away  with  weary  cares  and  themes 
Swing  wide  the  moonlit  gate  of  dreams ! 

Leave  free  once  more  the  land  which  teems 
With  wonders  and  romances  ! 

Where  thou,  with  clear  discerning  eyes, 

Shalt  rightly  read  the  truth  which  lies 
Beneath  the  quaintly  masking  guise 
Of  wild  and  wizard  fancies. 

Lo!  once  again  our  feet  we  set 
On  still  green  wood-paths,  twilight  wet. 


56 


ICHABOD 


By  lonely  brooks,  whose  waters  fret 
The  roots  of  spectral  beeches  ; 

Again  the  hearth  fire  glimmers  o’er 
Home’s  whitewashed  wall  and  painted  floor, 
And  young  eyes  widening  to  the  lore 
Of  faery-folks  and  witches. 

Dear  heart ! the  legend  is  not  vain 
Which  lights  that  holy  hearth  again, 

And  calling  back  from  care  and  pain, 

And  death’s  funereal  sadness. 

Draws  round  its  old  familiar  blaze 
The  clustering  groups  of  happier  days, 

And  lends  to  sober  manhood’s  gaze 
A glimpse  of  childish  gladness. 

And,  knowing  how  my  life  hath  been 
A weary  work  of  tongue  and  pen, 

A long,  harsh  strife  with  strong-willed  men, 
Thou  wilt  not  chide  my  turning 
To  con,  at  times,  an  idle  rhyme. 

To  pluck  a flower  from  childhood’s  clime. 
Or  listen,  at  Life’s  noonday  chime. 

For  the  sweet  bells  of  Morning ! 


ICHABOD 

This  poem  was  the  outcome  of  the  surprise  and  grief  and 
forecast  of  evil  consequences  which  I felt  on  reading  the 
seventh  of  March  speech  of  Daniel  Webster  in  support  of 
the  compromise,  ” and  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law.  No  parti- 
san or  personal  enmity  dictated  it.  On  the  contrary  my 


ICHABOD 


57 


admiration  of  the  splendid  personality  and  intellectual 
power  of  the  great  Senator  was  never  stronger  than  when  I 
laid  down  his  speech,  and,  in  one  of  the  saddest  moments  of 
my  life,  penned  my  protest.  I saw,  as  I wrote,  with  painful 
clearness  its  sure  results,  — the  Slave  Power  arrogant  and 
defiant,  strengthened  and  encouraged  to  carry  out  its  scheme 
for  the  extension  of  its  baleful  system,  or  the  dissolution  of 
the  Union,  the  guaranties  of  personal  liberty  in  the  free 
States  broken  down,  and  the  whole  country  made  the  hunt- 
ing-ground of  slave-catchers.  In  the  horror  of  such  a vision, 
so  soon  fearfully  fulfilled,  if  one  spoke  at  all,  he  could  only 
speak  in  tones  of  stem  and  sorrowful  rebuke. 

But  death  softens  all  resentments,  and  the  consciousness 
of  a common  inheritance  of  frailty  and  weakness  modifies 
the  severity  of  judgment.  Years  after,  in  The  Lost  Occa- 
siorij  I gave  utterance  to  an  almost  universal  regret  that  the 
great  statesman  did  not  live  to  see  the  fiag  which  he  loved 
trampled  under  the  feet  of  Slavery,  and,  in  view  of  this  de- 
secration, make  his  last  days  glorious  in  defence  of  Liberty 
and  Union,  one  and  inseparable.” 

SO  fallen  ! so  lost  I the  light  withdrawn 
Which  once  he  wore  I 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 
Forevermore  I 

Eevile  him  not,  the  Tempter  hath 
A snare  for  all ; 

And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall ! 

Oh,  dumb  be  passion’s  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age. 

Falls  back  in  night. 


58 


ICHABOD 


Scorn ! would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 
A bright  soul  driven, 

Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 
From  hope  and  heaven ! 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 
Insult  him  now. 

Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 
Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead. 

From  sea  to  lake, 

A long  lament,  as  for  the  dead. 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught 
Save  power  remains ; 

A fallen  angel’s  pride  of  thought. 

Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone ; from  those  great  eyes 
The  soul  has  fled  : 

When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies. 
The  man  is  dead ! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 
To  his  dead  fame ; 

Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze. 

And  hide  the  shame  1 


THE  LOST  OCCASION 


SOME  die  too  late  and  some  too  soon, 
At  early  morning,  heat  of  noon, 

Or  the  chill  evening  twilight.  Thou, 
Whom  the  rich  heavens  did  so  endow 
With  eyes  of  power  and  Jove’s  own  brow, 
With  all  the  massive  strength  that  fills 
Thy  home-horizon’s  granite  hills. 

With  rarest  gifts  of  heart  and  head 
From  manliest  stock  inherited. 

New  England’s  stateliest  type  of  man, 

In  port  and  speech  Olympian ; 

Whom  no  one  met,  at  first,  but  took 
A second  awed  and  wondering  look 
(As  turned,  perchance,  the  eyes  of  Greece 
On  Phidias’  unveiled  masterpiece)  ; 
Whose  words  in  simplest  homespun  clad, 
The  Saxon  strength  of  Caedmon’s  had, 
With  power  reserved  at  need  to  reach 
The  Eoman  forum’s  loftiest  speech. 
Sweet  with  persuasion,  eloquent 
In  passion,  cool  in  argument. 

Or,  ponderous,  falling  on  thy  foes 
As  fell  the  Norse  god’s  hammer  blows. 
Crushing  as  if  with  Talus’  fiail 
Through  Error’s  logic-woven  mail, 

And  failing  only  when  they  tried 
The  adamant  of  the  righteous  side,  — 
Thou,  foiled  in  aim  and  hope,  bereaved^ 
Of  old  friends,  by  the  new  deceived. 


60 


THE  LOST  OCCASION 


Too  soon  for  us,  too  soon  for  thee, 

Beside  thy  lonely  Northern  sea, 

Where  long  and  low  the  marsh-lands  spread, 
Laid  wearily  down  thy  august  head. 

Thou  shouldst  have  lived  to  feel  below 
Thy  feet  Disunion’s  fierce  upthrow  ; 

The  late-sprung  mine  that  underlaid 
Thy  sad  concessions  vainly  made. 

Thou  shouldst  have  seen  from  Sumter’s  wall 
The  star-flag  of  the  Union  fall, 

And  armed  rebellion  pressing  on 
The  broken  lines  of  Washington ! 

No  stronger  voice  than  thine  had  then 
Called  out  the  utmost  might  of  men, 

To  make  the  Union’s  charter  free 
And  strengthen  law  by  liberty. 

How  had  that  stern  arbitrament 
To  thy  gray  age  youth’s  vigor  lent, 

Shaming  ambition’s  paltry  prize 
Before  thy  disillusioned  eyes ; 

Breaking  the  spell  about  thee  wound 
Like  the  green  withes  that  Samson  bound ; 
Bedeeming  in  one  effort  grand. 

Thyself  and  thy  imperilled  land  ! 

Ah,  cruel  fate,  that  closed  to  thee, 

O sleeper  by  the  Northern  sea, 

The  gates  of  opportunity ! 

God  fills  the  gaps  of  human  need. 

Each  crisis  brings  its  word  and  deed. 

Wise  men  and  strong  we  did  not  lack ; 

But  still,  with  memory  turning  back. 


THE  LOST  OCCASION 


61 


In  the  dark  hours  we  thought  of  thee, 
And  thy  lone  grave  beside  the  sea. 

Above  that  grave  the  east  winds  blow, 
And  from  the  marsh-lands  drifting  slow 
The  sea-fog  comes,  with  evermore 
The  wave-wash  of  a lonely  shore. 

And  sea-bird’s  melancholy  cry. 

As  Nature  fain  would  typify 
The  sadness  of  a closing  scene, 

The  loss  of  that  which  should  have  been. 
But,  where  thy  native  mountains  bare 
Their  foreheads  to  diviner  air. 

Fit  emblem  of  enduring  fame, 

One  lofty  summit  keeps  thy  name. 

For  thee  the  cosmic  forces  did 
The  rearing  of  that  pyramid, 

The  prescient  ages  shaping  with 
Fire,  flood,  and  frost  thy  monolith. 
Sunrise  and  sunset  lay  thereon 
With  hands  of  light  their  benison, 

The  stars  of  midnight  pause  to  set 
Their  jewels  in  its  coronet. 

And  evermore  that  mountain  mass 
Seems  climbing  from  the  shadowy  pass 
To  light,  as  if  to  manifest 
Thy  nobler  self,  thy  life  at  best ! 


THE  QUAKER  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME 

The  Quaker  of  the  olden  time  I 
How  calm  and  firm  and  true, 

Unspotted  by  its  wrong  and  crime, 

He  walked  the  dark  earth  through. 

The  lust  of  power,  the  love  of  gain. 

The  thousand  lures  of  sin 
Around  him,  had  no  power  to  stain 
The  purity  within. 

With  that  deep  insight  which  detects 
All  great  things  in  the  small. 

And  knows  how  each  man’s  life  affects 
The  spiritual  life  of  all. 

He  walked  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, 

By  love  and  not  by  law ; 

The  presence  of  the  wrong  or  right 
He  rather  felt  than  saw. 

He  felt  that  wrong  with  wrong  partakes, 
That  nothing  stands  alone. 

That  whoso  gives  the  motive,  makes 
His  brother’s  sin  his  own. 

And,  pausing  not  for  doubtful  choice 
Of  evils  great  or  small. 

He  listened  to  that  inward  voice 
Which  called  away  from  aU. 

O Spirit  of  that  early  day, 

So  pure  and  strong  and  true, 


THE  MEETING 


63 


Be  with  us  in  the  narrow  way 
Our  faithful  fathers  knew. 

Give  strength  the  evil  to  forsake, 
The  cross  of  Truth  to  bear, 

And  love  and  reverent  fear  to  make 
Our  daily  lives  a prayer  1 


THE  MEETING 

The  two  speakers  in  the  meeting  referred  to  in  this  poem 
were  Avis  Keene,  whose  very  presence  was  a benediction,  a 
woman  lovely  in  spirit  and  person,  whose  words  seemed  a 
message  of  love  and  tender  concern  to  her  hearers ; and  Sibyl 
Jones,  whose  inspired  eloquence  and  rare  spirituality  im- 
pressed all  who  knew  her.  In  obedience  to  her  apprehended 
duty  she  made  visits  of  Christian  love  to  various  parts  of 
Europe,  and  to  the  West  Coast  of  Africa  and  Palestine. 

The  elder  folk  shook  hands  at  last,  \ 
Down  seat  by  seat  the  signal  passed. 

To  simple  ways  like  ours  unused, 

HaK  solemnized  and  half  amused. 

With  long-drawn  breath  and  shrug,  my  guest 
His  sense  of  glad  relief  expressed. 

Outside,  the  hills  lay  warm  in  sun ; 

The  cattle  in  the  meadow-run 
Stood  half-leg  deep ; a single  bird 
The  green  repose  above  us  stirred. 

What  part  or  lot  have  you,”  he  said, 

‘‘  In  these  dull  rites  of  drowsy-head  ? 

Is  silence  worship  ? Seek  it  where 
It  soothes  with  dreams  the  summer  air. 

Not  in  this  close  and  rude-benched  hall, 


64 


THE  MEETING 


But  where  soft  lights  and  shadows  fall, 
And  all  the  slow,  sleep-walking  hours 
Glide  soundless  over  grass  and  flowers  ! 
From  time  and  place  and  form  apart, 

Its  holy  ground  the  human  hearty 
Nor  ritual-bound  nor  templeward 
Walks  the  free  spirit  of  the  Lord ! 

Our  common  Master  did  not  pen 
His  followers  up  from  other  men ; 

His  service  liberty  indeed. 

He  built  no  church,  He  framed  no  creed ; 
But  while  the  saintly  Pharisee 
Made  broader  his  phylactery. 

As  from  the  synagogue  was  seen 
The  dusty-sandalled  Nazarene 
Through  ripening  cornfields  lead  the  way 
Upon  the  awful  Sabbath  day. 

His  sermons  were  the  healthful  talk 
That  shorter  made  the  mountain-walk. 
His  wayside  texts  were  flowers  and  birds. 
Where  mingled  with  His  gracious  words 
The  rustle  of  the  tamarisk-tree 
And  ripple-wash  of  Galilee.” 

‘‘  Thy  words  are  well,  O friend,”  I said ; 

“ Unmeasured  and  unlimited. 

With  noiseless  slide  of  stone  to  stone. 

The  mystic  Church  of  God  has  grown. 
Invisible  and  silent  stands 
The  temple  never  made  with  hands, 
Unheard  the  voices  still  and  small 
Of  its  unseen  confessional. 


THE  MEETING 


65 


He  needs  no  special  place  of  prayer 
Whose  hearing  ear  is  everywhere ; 

He  brings  not  back  the  childish  days 
That  ringed  the  earth  with  stones  of  praise, 
Roofed  Karnak’s  hall  of  gods,  and  laid 
The  plinths  of  Philse’s  colonnade. 

StiU  less  He  owns  the  selfish  good 
And  sickly  growth  of  solitude,  — 

The  worthless  grace  that,  out  of  sight, 
Flowers  in  the  desert  anchorite  ; 

Dissevered  from  the  suffering  whole. 

Love  hath  no  power  to  save  a soul. 

Not  out  of  Self,  the  origin 
And  native  air  and  soil  of  sin. 

The  living  waters  spring  and  flow, 

The  trees  with  leaves  of  healing  grow. 

Dream  not,  O friend,  because  I seek 
This  quiet  shelter  twice  a week, 

I better  deem  its  pine-laid  floor 
Than  breezy  hill  or  sea-sung  shore  ; 

But  nature  is  not  solitude  : 

She  crowds  us  with  her  thronging  wood ; 
Her  many  hands  reach  out  to  us. 

Her  many  tongues  are  garrulous  ; 

Perpetual  riddles  of  surprise 
She  offers  to  our  ears  and  eyes ; 

She  will  not  leave  our  senses  still, 

But  drags  them  captive  at  her  will : 

And,  making  earth  too  great  for  heaven, 

She  hides  the  Giver  in  the  given. 


THE  MEETING 


“ And  so  I find  it  well  to  come 
For  deeper  rest  to  this  still  room, 

For  here  the  habit  of  the  soul 
Feels  less  the  outer  world's  control ; 

The  strength  of  mutual  purpose  pleads 
More  earnestly  our  common  needs  ; 

And  from  the  silence  multiplied 
By  these  still  forms  on  either  side, 

The  world  that  time  and  sense  have  known 
Falls  off  and  leaves  us  God  alone. 

Yet  rarely  through  the  charmed  repose 
Unmixed  the  stream  of  motive  flows, 

A flavor  of  its  many  springs, 

The  tints  of  earth  and  sky  it  brings ; 

In  the  still  waters  needs  must  be 
Some  shade  of  human  sympathy ; 

And  here,  in  its  accustomed  place, 

I look  on  memory’s  dearest  face  ; 

The  blind  by-sitter  guesseth  not 
What  shadow  haunts  that  vacant  spot ; 

No  eyes  save  mine  alone  can  see 
The  love  wherewith  it  welcomes  me  ! 

And  still,  with  those  alone  my  kin. 

In  doubt  and  weakness,  want  and  sin, 

I bow  my  head,  my  heart  I bare. 

As  when  that  face  was  living  there. 

And  strive  (too  oft,  alas  ! in  vain) 

The  peace  of  simple  trust  to  gain. 

Fold  fancy’s  restless  wings,  and  lay 
The  idols  of  my  heart  away. 


THE  MEETING 


67 


" Welcome  the  silence  all  unbroken, 

Nor  less  the  words  of  fitness  spoken,-^ 

Such  golden  words  as  hers  for  whom 
Our  autumn  fiowers  have  just  made  room ; 
Whose  hopeful  utterance  through  and  through 
The  freshness  of  the  morning  blew ; 

Who  loved  not  less  the  earth  that  light 
Fell  on  it  from  the  heavens  in  sight, 

But  saw  in  all  fair  forms  more  fair 
The  Eternal  beauty  mirrored  there. 

Whose  eighty  years  but  added  grace 
And  saintlier  meaning  to  her  face,  — 

The  look  of  one  who  bore  away 
Glad  tidings  from  the  hills  of  day. 

While  all  our  hearts  went  forth  to  meet 
The  coming  of  her  beautiful  feet ! 

Or  haply  hers,  whose  pilgrim  tread 
Is  in  the  paths  where  Jesus  led  ; 

Who  dreams  her  childhood’s  sabbath  dream 
By  Jordan’s  wiUow-shaded  stream. 

And,  of  the  hymns  of  hope  and  faith, 

Sung  by  the  monks  of  Nazareth, 

Hears  pious  echoes,  in  the  call 
To  prayer,  from  Moslem  minarets  fall, 
Bepeating  where  His  works  were  wrought 
The  lesson  that  her  Master  taught 
Of  whom  an  elder  Sibyl  gave 
The  prophecies  of  Cumae’s  cave  I 

“I  ask  no  organ’s  soulless  breath 
To  drone  the  themes  of  life  and  death, 


68 


THE  MEETING 


No  altar  candle-lit  by  day, 

No  ornate  wordsman’s  rhetoric-play, 

No  cool  philosophy  to  teach 
Its  bland  audacities  of  speech 
To  double-tasked  idolaters 
Themselves  their  gods  and  worshippers. 
No  pulpit  hammered  by  the  fist 
Of  loud-asserting  dogmatist, 

Who  borrows  for  the  Hand  of  love 
The  smoking  thunderbolts  of  Jove. 

I know  how  well  the  fathers  taught. 

What  work  the  later  schoolmen  wrought ; 
I reverence  old-time  faith  and  men. 

But  God  is  near  us  now  as  then ; 

His  force  of  love  is  still  unspent. 

His  hate  of  sin  as  imminent ; 

And  still  the  measure  of  our  needs 
Outgrows  the  cramping  bounds  of  creeds ; 
The  manna  gathered  yesterday 
Already  savors  of  decay ; 

Doubts  to  the  world’s  child-heart  unknown 
Question  us  now  from  star  and  stone ; 

Too  little  or  too  much  we  know, 

And  sight  is  swift  and  faith  is  slow ; 

The  power  is  lost  to  self-deceive 
With  shallow  forms  of  make-believe. 

We  walk  at  high  noon,  and  the  bells 
Call  to  a thousand  oracles. 

But  the  sound  deafens,  and  the  light 
Is  stronger  than  our  dazzled  sight ; 

The  letters  of  the  sacred  Book 
Glimmer  and  swim  beneath  our  look ; 


THE  MEETING 


Still  struggles  in  the  Age’s  breast 
With  deepening  agony  of  quest 
The  old  entreaty ; ‘ Art  thou  He, 

Or  look  we  for  the  Christ  to  be  ? ’ 

God  should  be  most  where  man  is  least 
So,  where  is  neither  church  nor  priest, 
And  never  rag  of  form  or  creed 
To  clothe  the  nakedness  of  need,  — 
Where  farmer-folk  in  silence  meet,  — 

I turn  my  bell-unsummoned  feet ; 

I lay  the  critic’s  glass  aside, 

I tread  upon  my  lettered  pride. 

And,  lowest-seated,  testify 
To  the  oneness  of  humanity  ; 

Confess  the  universal  want. 

And  share  whatever  Heaven  may  grant. 
He  findeth  not  who  seeks  his  own. 

The  soul  is  lost  that ’s  saved  alone. 

Not  on  one  favored  forehead  fell 
Of  old  the  fire-tongued  miracle. 

But  flamed  o’er  all  the  thronging  host 
The  baptism  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 

Heart  answers  heart : in  one  desire 
The  blending  lines  of  prayer  aspire ; 

‘ Where,  in  my  name,  meet  two  or  three,’ 
Our  Lord  hath  said,  ‘ I there  will  be  ! ’ 

So  sometimes  comes  to  soul  and  sense 
The  feeling  which  is  evidence 
That  very  near  about  us  lies 
The  realm  of  spiritual  mysteries. 


70 


THE  MEETmG 


The  sphere  of  the  supernal  powers 
Impinges  on  this  world  of  ours. 

The  low  and  dark  horizon  lifts, 

To  light  the  scenic  terror  shifts  ; 

The  breath  of  a diviner  air 
Blows  down  the  answer  of  a prayer : 
That  all  our  sorrow,  pain,  and  doubt 
A great  compassion  clasps  about. 

And  law  and  goodness,  love  and  force, 
Are  wedded  fast  beyond  divorce. 

Then  duty  leaves  to  love  its  task. 

The  beggar  Self  forgets  to  ask ; 

With  smile  of  trust  and  folded  hands, 
The  passive  soul  in  waiting  stands 
To  feel,  as  flowers  the  sun  and  dew. 
The  One  true  Life  its  own  renew. 

‘‘  So  to  the  calmly  gathered  thought 
The  innermost  of  truth  is  taught. 

The  mystery  dimly  understood. 

That  love  of  God  is  love  of  good. 

And,  chiefly,  its  divinest  trace 
In  Him  of  Nazareth’s  holy  face; 

That  to  be  saved  is  only  this,  — 
Salvation  from  our  selfishness. 

From  more  than  elemental  fire. 

The  soul’s  unsanctified  desire. 

From  sin  itself,  and  not  the  pain 
That  warns  us  of  its  chafing  chain ; 
That  worship’s  deeper  meaning  lies 
In  mercy,  and  not  sacrifice. 

Not  proud  humilities  of  sense 


HAMPTON  BEACH 


71 


And  posturing  of  penitence, 

But  love’s  unforced  obedience ; 

That  Book  and  Church  and  Day  are  given 
For  man,  not  God, — for  earth,  not  heaven,  — 
The  blessed  means  to  holiest  ends. 

Not  masters,  but  benignant  friends  ; 

That  the  dear  Christ  dwells  not  afar, 

The  king  of  some  remoter  star. 

Listening,  at  times,  with  flattered  ear 
To  homage  wrung  from  selfish  fear. 

But  here,  amidst  the  poor  and  blind, 

The  bound  and  suffering  of  our  kind, 

In  works  we  do,  in  prayers  we  pray, 

Life  of  our  life.  He  lives  to-day.” 


HAMPTON  BEACH 

The  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright, 

Where,  miles  away. 

Lies  stretching  to  my  dazzled  sight 
A luminous  belt,  a misty  light. 

Beyond  the  dark  pine  bluffs  and  wastes  of  sandy 
gray. 

The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  Sea ! 

Against  its  ground 
Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill,  and  tree. 

Still  as  a picture,  clear  and  free. 

With  varying  outline  mark  the  coast  for  miles 
around. 


72 


HAMPTON  BEACH 


Our  seaward  way, 

On  — on  — we  tread  with  loose-flung  rein 
Through  dark-green  fields  and  blossoming  grain, 
Where  the  wild  brier-rose  skirts  the  lane. 

And  bends  above  our  heads  the  flowering  locust 
spray. 

Ha  ! like  a kind  hand  on  my  brow 
Comes  this  fresh  breeze. 

Cooling  its  dull  and  feverish  glow. 

While  through  my  being  seems  to  flow 
The  breath  of  a new  life,  the  healing  of  the  seas ! 

Now  rest  we,  where  this  grassy  mound 
His  feet  hath  set 

In  the  great  waters,  which  have  bound 
His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 
With  long  and  tangled  moss,  and  weeds  with  cool 
spray  wet. 

Good-by  to  Pain  and  Care ! I take 
Mine  ease  to-day : 

Here  where  these  sunny  waters  break. 

And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  I shake 
All  burdens  from  the  heart,  all  weary  thoughts 
away. 

I draw  a freer  breath,  I seem 
Like  all  I see  — 

Waves  in  the  sun,  the  white-winged  gleam 
Of  searbirds  in  the  slanting  beam. 

And  far-off  sails  which  flit  before  the  south-wind 
free. 


HAMPTON  BEACH 


73 


So  when  Time’s  veil  shall  fall  asunder, 

The  soul  may  know 
No  fearful  change,  nor  sudden  wonder, 

Nor  sink  the  weight  of  mystery  under, 

But  with  the  upward  rise,  and  with  the  vastness 
grow. 

And  all  we  shrink  from  now  may  seem 
No  new  revealing ; 

Familiar  as  our  childhood's  stream, 

Or  pleasant  memory  of  a dream 
The  loved  and  cherished  Past  upon  the  new  life 
stealing. 

Serene  and  mild  the  untried  light 
May  have  its  dawning  ; 

And,  as  in  summer’s  northern  night 
The  evening  and  the  dawn  unite, 

The  sunset  hues  of  Time  blend  with  the  soul’s 
new  morning. 

I sit  alone  ; in  foam  and  spray 
Wave  after  wave 

Breaks  on  the  rocks  which,  stern  and  gray. 
Shoulder  the  broken  tide  away, 

Or  murmurs  hoarse  and  strong  through  mossy 
cleft  and  cave. 

What  heed  I of  the  dusty  land 
And  noisy  town  ? 

I see  the  mighty  deep  expand 


74 


HAMPTON  BEACH 


From  its  white  line  of  glimmering  sand 
To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  on  bluer  waves  shuts 
down ! 

In  listless  quietude  of  mind, 

I yield  to  all 

The  change  of  cloud  and  wave  and  wind ; 

And  passive  on  the  flood  reclined, 

I wander  with  the  waves,  and  with  them  rise  and 
fall. 


But  look,  thou  dreamer ! wave  and  shore 
In  shadow  lie ; 

The  night-wind  warns  me  back  once  more 
To  where,  my  native  hill-tops  o'er. 

Bends  like  an  arch  of  fire  the  glowing  sunset  sky. 

So  then,  beach,  bluff,  and  wave,  farewell  I 
I bear  with  me 

No  token  stone  nor  glittering  shell. 

But  long  and  oft  shall  Memory  tell 
Of  this  brief  thoughtful  hour  of  musing  by  the 
Sea. 


A SEA  DREAM 

WE  saw  the  slow  tides  go  and  come. 

The  curving  surf-lines  lightly  drawn. 
The  gray  rocks  touched  with  tender  bloom 
Beneath  the  fresh-blown  rose  of  dawn. 


A SEA  DREAM 


75 


We  saw  in  richer  sunsets  lost 
The  sombre  pomp  of  showery  noons ; 

And  signalled  spectral  sails  that  crossed 
The  weird,  low  light  of  rising  moons. 

On  stormy  eves  from  cliff  and  head 
We  saw  the  white  spray  tossed  and 
spurned ; 

While  over  all,  in  gold  and  red. 

Its  face  of  fire  the  lighthouse  turned. 

The  rail-car  brought  its  daily  crowds. 

Half  curious,  half  indifferent, 

Like  passing  sails  or  floating  clouds, 

We  saw  them  as  they  came  and  went. 

But,  one  calm  morning,  as  we  lay 
And  watched  the  mirage-lifted  wall 

Of  coast,  across  the  dreamy  bay, 

And  heard  afar  the  curlew  caU, 

And  nearer  voices,  wild  or  tame, 

Of  airy  flock  and  childish  throng. 

Up  from  the  water’s  edge  there  came 
Faint  snatches  of  familiar  song. 

Careless  we  heard  the  singer’s  choice 
Of  old  and  common  airs  ; at  last 

The  tender  pathos  of  his  voice 
In  one  low  chanson  held  us  fast. 

A song  that  mingled  joy  and  pain. 

And  memories  old  and  sadly  sweet ; 


76 


A SEA  DREAM 


While,  timing  to  its  minor  strain, 
The  waves  in  lapsing  cadence  beat. 


The  waves  are  glad  in  breeze  and  sun ; 
The  rocks  are  fringed  with  foam ; 

I walk  once  more  a haunted  shore, 

A stranger,  yet  at  home, 

A land  of  dreams  I roam. 

Is  this  the  wind,  the  soft  sea-wind 
That  stirred  thy  locks  of  brown  ? 

Are  these  the  rocks  whose  mosses  knew 
The  trail  of  thy  light  gown. 

Where  boy  and  girl  sat  down  ? 

I see  the  gray  fort's  broken  wall. 

The  boats  that  rock  below  ; 

And,  out  at  sea,  the  passing  sails 
We  saw  so  long  ago 
Rose-red  in  morning's  glow. 

The  freshness  of  the  early  time 
On  every  breeze  is  blown  ; 

As  glad  the  sea,  as  blue  the  sky,  — 

The  change  is  ours  alone ; 

The  saddest  is  my  own. 

A stranger  now,  a world-worn  man, 

Is  he  who  bears  my  name  ; 

But  thou,  methinks,  whose  mortal  life 
Immortal  youth  became. 

Art  evermore  the  same. 


A SEA  DREAM 


77 


Thou  art  not  here,  thou  art  not  there, 

Thy  place  I cannot  see  ; 

I only  know  that  where  thou  art 
The  blessed  angels  be, 

And  heaven  is  glad  for  thee. 

Forgive  me  if  the  evil  years 
Have  left  on  me  their  sign ; 

Wash  out,  O soul  so  beautiful, 

The  many  stains  of  mine 
In  tears  of  love  divine  ! 

I could  not  look  on  thee  and  live. 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side  ; 

The  vision  of  a shining  one. 

The  white  and  heavenly  bride. 

Is  well  to  me  denied. 

But  turn  to  me  thy  dear  girl-face 
Without  the  angeFs  crown. 

The  wedded  roses  of  thy  lips. 

Thy  loose  hair  rippling  down 
In  waves  of  golden  brown. 

Look  forth  once  more  through  space  and 
time. 

And  let  thy  sweet  shade  fall 
In  tenderest  grace  of  soul  and  form 
On  memory’s  frescoed  wall, 

A shadow,  and  yet  all ! 

Draw  near,  more  near,  forever  dear ! 

Where’er  I rest  or  roam. 


78 


A SEA  DREAM 


Or  in  the  city’s  crowded  streets, 
Or  by  the  blown  sea  foam, 
The  thought  of  thee  is  home  I 


At  breakfast  hour  the  singer  read 
The  city  news,  with  comment  wise, 

Like  one  who  felt  the  pulse  of  trade 
Beneath  his  finger  fall  and  rise. 

His  look,  his  air,  his  curt  speech,  told 
The  man  of  action,  not  of  books. 

To  whom  the  corners  made  in  gold 
And  stocks  were  more  than  seaside  nooks. 

Of  life  beneath  the  life  confessed 
His  song  had  hinted  unawares ; 

Of  flowers  in  traffic’s  ledgers  pressed, 

Of  human  hearts  in  bulls  and  bears. 

But  eyes  in  vain  were  turned  to  watch 
That  face  so  hard  and  shrewd  and  strong ; 

And  ears  in  vain  grew  sharp  to  catch 
The  meaning  of  that  morning  song. 

In  vain  some  sweet-voiced  querist  sought 
To  sound  him,  leaving  as  she  came ; 

Her  baited  album  only  caught 
A common,  unromantic  name. 

Ho  word  betrayed  the  mystery  fine. 

That  trembled  on  the  singer’s  tongue ; 

He  came  and  went,  and  left  no  sign 
Behind  him  save  the  song  he  sung. 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE 


LAKE  WINNIPESAUKEE 
I.  NOON 

WHITE  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt  the 
deep 

Light  mists,  whose  soft  embraces  keep 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills  asleep ! 

O isles  of  calm  ! O dark,  still  wood ! 

And  stiller  skies  that  overbrood 
Your  rest  with  deeper  quietude  ! 

O shapes  and  hues,  dim  beckoning,  through 
Yon  mountain  gaps,  my  longing  view 
Beyond  the  purple  and  the  blue. 

To  stiller  sea  and  greener  land. 

And  softer  lights  and  airs  more  bland. 

And  skies,  — the  hollow  of  God’s  hand ! 

Transfused  through  you,  O mountain  friends  1 
With  mine  your  solemn  spirit  blends. 

And  life  no  more  hath  separate  ends. 

I read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 

I know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine, 

And  I am  yours,  and  ye  are  mine. 

Life’s  burdens  fall,  its  discords  cease, 

I lapse  into  the  glad  release 
Of  Nature’s  own  exceeding  peace. 


80  SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE 


O welcome  calm  of  heart  and  mind ! 

As  falls  yon  fir-tree’s  loosened  rind 
To  leave  a tenderer  growth  behind, 

So  fall  the  weary  years  away ; 

A child  again,  my  head  I lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day. 

This  western  wind  hath  Lethean  powers, 
Yon  noonday  cloud  nepenthe  showers. 
The  lake  is  white  with  lotus-flowers ! 

Even  Duty’s  voice  is  faint  and  low. 

And  slumberous  Conscience,  waking  slow, 
Forgets  her  blotted  scroll  to  show. 

The  Shadow  which  pursues  us  all. 

Whose  ever-nearing  steps  appall. 

Whose  voice  we  hear  behind  us  call,  — 

That  Shadow  blends  with  mountain  gray, 
It  speaks  but  what  the  light  waves  say,  — 
Death  walks  apart  from  Fear  to-day ! 

Rocked  on  her  breast,  these  pines  and  I 
Alike  on  Nature’s  love  rely  ; 

And  equal  seems  to  live  or  die. 

Assured  that  He  whose  presence  fills 
With  light  the  spaces  of  these  hills 
No  evil  to  His  creatures  wills. 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE  81 

The  simple  faith  remains,  that  He 
Will  do,  whatever  that  may  be. 

The  best  alike  for  man  and  tree. 

What  mosses  over  one  shall  grow, 

What  light  and  life  the  other  know, 

Unanxious,  leaving  Him  to  show. 

II.  EVENING 

Yon  mountain’s  side  is  black  with  night, 

While,  broad-orbed,  o’er  its  gleaming  crown 
The  moon,  slow-rounding  into  sight. 

On  the  hushed  inland  sea  looks  down. 

How  start  to  light  the  clustering  isles, 

Each  silver-hemmed  ! How  sharply  show 
The  shadows  of  their  rocky  piles, 

And  tree-tops  in  the  wave  below  ! 

How  far  and  strange  the  mountains  seem. 
Dim-looming  through  the  pale,  still  light ! 

The  vague,  vast  grouping  of  a dream, 

They  stretch  into  the  solemn  night. 

Beneath,  lake,  wood,  and  peopled  vale. 

Hushed  by  that  presence  grand  and  grave. 

Are  silent,  save  the  cricket’s  wail, 

And  low  response  of  leaf  and  wave. 

Fair  scenes ! whereto  the  Day  and  Night 
Make  rival  love,  I leave  ye  soon. 

What  time  before  the  eastern  light 
The  pale  ghost  of  the  setting  moon 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE 


Shall  hide  behind  yon  rocky  spines, 

And  the  young  archer,  Morn,  shall  break 

His  arrows  on  the  mountain  pines. 

And,  golden-sandalled,  walk  the  lake ! 

Farewell ! around  this  smiling  bay 
Gay-hearted  Health,  and  Life  in  bloom, 

With  lighter  steps  than  mine,  may  stray 
In  radiant  summers  yet  to  come. 

But  none  shall  more  regretful  leave 
These  waters  and  these  hills  than  I : 

Or,  distant,  fonder  dream  how  eve 
Or  dawn  is  painting  wave  and  sky  ; 

How  rising  moons  shine  sad  and  mild 
On  wooded  isle  and  silvering  bay ; 

Or  setting  suns  beyond  the  piled 
And  purple  mountains  lead  the  day ; 

Nor  laughing  girl,  nor  bearding  boy. 

Nor  full-pulsed  manhood,  lingering  here, 

Shall  add,  to  life's  abounding  joy. 

The  charmed  repose  to  suffering  dear. 

Still  waits  kind  Nature  to  impart 
Her  choicest  gifts  to  such  as  gain 

An  entrance  to  her  loving  heart 

Through  the  sharp  discipline  of  pain. 

Forever  from  the  Hand  that  takes 
One  blessing  from  us  others  fall ; 


SUNSET  ON  THE  BEARCAMP  83 

And,  soon  or  late,  our  Father  makes 
His  perfect  recompense  to  all  I 

Oh,  watched  by  Silence  and  the  Night, 

And  folded  in  the  strong  embrace 
Of  the  great  mountains,  with  the  light 
Of  the  sweet  heavens  upon  thy  face. 

Lake  of  the  Northland  ! keep  thy  dower 
Of  beauty  still,  and  while  above 
Thy  solemn  mountains  speak  of  power, 

Be  thou  the  mirror  of  God’s  love. 

SUNSET  ON  THE  BEARCAMP 

A GOLD  fringe  on  the  purpling  hem 
Of  hills  the  river  runs. 

As  down  its  long,  green  valley  falls 
The  last  of  summer’s  suns. 

Along  its  tawny  gravel-bed 
Broad-flowing,  swift,  and  still, 

As  if  its  meadow  levels  felt 
The  hurry  of  the  hill, 

Noiseless  between  its  banks  of  green 
From  curve  to  curve  it  slips  ; 

The  drowsy  maple-shadows  rest 
Like  fingers  on  its  lips. 

A waif  from  Carroll’s  wildest  hills, 

Unstoried  and  unknown ; 

The  ursine  legend  of  its  name 
Prowls  on  its  banks  alone. 


84  SUNSET  ON  THE  BEAKCAMP 


Yet  flowers  as  fair  its  slopes  adorn 
As  ever  Yarrow  knew, 

Or,  under  rainy  Irish  skies. 

By  Spenser’s  Mulla  grew ; 

And  through  the  gaps  of  leaning  trees 
Its  mountain  cradle  shows  ; 

The  gold  against  the  amethyst. 

The  green  against  the  rose. 

Touched  by  a light  that  hath  no  name, 

A glory  never  sung. 

Aloft  on  sky  and  mountain  wall 
Are  God’s  great  pictures  hung. 

How  changed  the  summits  vast  and  old ! 

No  longer  granite-browed, 

They  melt  in  rosy  mist ; the  rock 
Is  softer  than  the  cloud ; 

The  valley  holds  its  breath ; no  leaf 
Of  all  its  elms  is  twirled : 

The  silence  of  eternity 
Seems  falling  on  the  world. 

The  pause  before  the  breaking  seals 
Of  mystery  is  this ; 

Yon  miracle-play  of  night  and  day 
Makes  dumb  its  witnesses. 

What  unseen  altar  crowns  the  hills 
That  reach  up  stair  on  stair  ? 

What  eyes  look  through,  what  white  wings  fan 
These  purple  veils  of  air  ? 

What  Presence  from  the  heavenly  heights 
To  those  of  earth  stoops  down  ? 


SUNSET  ON  THE  BEAKCAMP  85 

Not  vainly  Hellas  dreamed  of  gods 
On  Ida’s  snowy  crown ! 

Slow  fades  the  vision  of  the  sky, 

The  golden  water  pales, 

And  over  all  the  valley-land 
A gray-winged  vapor  sails. 

I go  the  common  way  of  all ; 

The  sunset  fires  will  burn, 

The  flowers  will  blow,  the  river  flow, 

When  I no  more  return. 

No  whisper  from  the  mountain  pine 
Nor  lapsing  stream  shall  tell 
The  stranger,  treading  where  I tread. 

Of  him  who  loved  them  well. 

But  beauty  seen  is  never  lost, 

God’s  colors  all  are  fast ; 

The  glory  of  this  sunset  heaven 
Into  my  soul  has  passed, 

A sense  of  gladness  unconfined 
To  mortal  date  or  clime ; 

As  the  soul  liveth,  it  shall  live 
Beyond  the  years  of  time. 

Beside  the  mystic  asphodels 
Shall  bloom  the  home-born  flowers, 

And  new  horizons  flush  and  glow 
With  sunset  hues  of  ours. 

Farewell ! these  smiling  hills  must  wear 
Too  soon  their  wintry  frown. 

And  snow-cold  winds  from  off  them  shake 
The  maple’s  red  leaves  down. 


86  THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN 


But  I shall  see  a summer  sun 
Still  setting  broad  and  low ; 

The  mountain  slopes  shall  blush  and  bloom, 
The  golden  water  flow. 

A lover’s  claim  is  mine  on  all 
I see  to  have  and  hold,  — 

The  rose-light  of  perpetual  hills, 

And  sunsets  never  cold ! 

THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN 

I 

O’EK  the  bare  woods,  whose  outstretchedhands 
Plead  with  the  leaden  heavens  in  vain, 

I see,  beyond  the  valley  lands, 

The  sea’s  long  level  dim  with  rain. 

Around  me  all  things,  stark  and  dumb. 

Seem  praying  for  the  snows  to  come, 

And,  for  the  summer  bloom  and  greenness  gone. 
With  winter’s  sunset  lights  and  dazzling  morn 
atone. 

II 

Along  the  river’s  summer  walk. 

The  withered  tufts  of  asters  nod ; 

And  trembles  on  its  arid  stalk 
The  hoar  plume  of  the  golden-rod. 

And  on  a ground  of  sombre  flr, 

And  azure-studded  juniper. 

The  silver  birch  its  buds  of  purple  shows. 

And  scarlet  berries  tell  where  bloomed  the  sweet 
wild-rose  I 


THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN  87 


III 

With  mingled  sound  of  horns  and  bells, 

A far-heard  clang,  the  wild  geese  fly. 
Storm-sent,  from  Arctic  moors  and  fells. 

Like  a great  arrow  through  the  sky. 

Two  dusky  lines  converged  in  one, 

Chasing  the  southward-flying  sun ; 

While  the  brave  snow-bird  and  the  hardy  jay 
Call  to  them  from  the  pines,  as  if  to  bid  them  stay. 

IV 

I passed  this  way  a year  ago  : 

The  wind  blew  south ; the  noon  of  day 
Was  warm  as  June’s ; and  save  that  snow 
Flecked  the  low  mountains  far  away. 

And  that  the  vernal-seeming  breeze 
Mocked  faded  grass  and  leafless  trees, 

I might  have  dreamed  of  summer  as  I lay. 
Watching  the  fallen  leaves  with  the  soft  wind  at 
play. 

V 

Since  then,  the  winter  blasts  have  piled 
The  white  pagodas  of  the  snow 
On  these  rough  slopes,  and,  strong  and  wild, 

Yon  river,  in  its  overflow 
Of  spring-time  rain  and  sun,  set  free. 

Crashed  with  its  ices  to  the  sea ; 

And  over  these  gray  fields,  then  green  and  gold. 

The  summer  corn  has  waved,  the  thunder’s  organ 
rolled. 


88  THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN 


VI 

Rich  gift  of  God ! A year  of  time ! 

What  pomp  of  rise  and  shut  of  day, 

What  hues  wherewith  our  Northern  clime 
Makes  autumn’s  dropping  woodlands  gay, 
What  airs  outblown  from  ferny  dells, 

And  clover-bloom  and  sweetbrier  smells. 

What  songs  of  brooks  and  birds,  what  fruits  and 
flowers. 

Green  woods  and  moonlit  snows,  have  in  its  round 
been  ours ! 

VII 

I know  not  how,  in  other  lands. 

The  changing  seasons  come  and  go ; 

What  splendors  fall  on  Syrian  sands, 

What  purple  lights  on  Alpine  snow  I 
Nor  how  the  pomp  of  sunrise  waits 
On  Venice  at  her  watery  gates  ; 

A dream  alone  to  me  is  Arno’s  vale. 

And  the  Alhambra’s  halls  are  but  a traveller’s 
tale. 

VIII 

Yet,  on  life’s  current,  he  who  drifts 
Is  one  with  him  who  rows  or  sails; 

And  he  who  wanders  widest  lifts 
No  more  of  beauty’s  jealous  veils 
Than  he  who  from  his  doorway  sees 
The  miracle  of  flowers  and  trees. 

Feels  the  warm  Orient  in  the  noonday  air. 

And  from  cloud  minarets  hears  the  sunset  call  to 
prayer  I 


THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN  89 


IX 

The  eye  may  well  be  glad  that  looks 
Where  Pharpar’s  fountains  rise  and  fall ; 

But  he  who  sees  his  native  brooks 
Laugh  in  the  sun,  has  seen  them  all. 

The  marble  palaces  of  Ind 

Rise  round  him  in  the  snow  and  wind ; 

From  his  lone  sweetbrier  Persian  Hafiz  smiles, 

And  Rome’s  cathedral  awe  is  in  his  woodland 
aisles. 


X 

And  thus  it  is  my  fancy  blends 
The  near  at  hand  and  far  and  rare ; 

And  while  the  same  horizon  bends 
Above  the  silver-sprinkled  hair 
Which  flashed  the  light  of  morning  skies 
On  childhood’s  wonder-lifted  eyes. 

Within  its  round  of  sea  and  sky  and  field, 

Earth  wheels  with  all  her  zones,  the  Kosmos  stands 
revealed. 

XI 

And  thus  the  sick  man  on  his  bed, 

The  toiler  to  his  task-work  bound, 

Behold  their  prison-walls  outspread, 

Their  clipped  horizon  widen  roimd  I 
While  freedom-giving  fancy  waits. 

Like  Peter’s  angel  at  the  gates. 

The  power  is  theirs  to  bafi9.e  care  and  pain. 

To  bring  the  lost  world  back,  and  make  it  theirs 
again! 


90  THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN 


XII 

What  lack  of  goodly  company, 

When  masters  of  the  ancient  lyre 
Obey  my  call,  and  trace  for  me 

Their  words  of  mingled  tears  and  fire ! 

I talk  with  Bacon,  grave  and  wise, 

I read  the  world  with  Pascal’s  eyes; 

And  priest  and  sage,  with  solemn  brows  austere, 
And  poets,  garland-bound,  the  Lords  of  Thought, 
draw  near. 

XIII 

Methinks,  O friend,  I hear  thee  say, 

“ In  vain  the  human  heart  we  mock ; 

Bring  living  guests  who  love  the  day. 

Not  ghosts  who  fiy  at  crow  of  cock ! 

The  herbs  we  share  with  flesh  and  blood 
Are  better  than  ambrosial  food 
With  laurelled  shades.”  I grant  it,  nothing  loath, 
But  doubly  blest  is  he  who  can  partake  of  both. 

XIV 

He  who  might  Plato’s  banquet  grace, 

Have  I not  seen  before  me  sit. 

And  watched  his  puritanic  face, 

With  more  than  Eastern  wisdom  lit? 

Shrewd  mystic ! who,  upon  the  back 
Of  his  Poor  Kichard’s  Almanac 
Writing  the  Sufi’s  song,  the  Gentoo’s  dream. 

Links  Mann’s  age  of  thought  to  Fulton’s  age  of 
steam  I 


THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN  91 


XV 

Here  too,  of  answering  love  secure, 

Have  I not  welcomed  to  my  hearth 
The  gentle  pilgrim  troubadour. 

Whose  songs  have  girdled  half  the  earth ; 
Whose  pages,  like  the  magic  mat 
Whereon  the  Eastern  lover  sat. 

Have  borne  me  over  Rhine-land’s  purple  vines. 
And  Nubia’s  tawny  sands,  and  Phrygia’s  mountain 
pines  I 


XVI 

And  he,  who  to  the  lettered  wealth 
Of  ages  adds  the  lore  unpriced. 

The  wisdom  and  the  moral  health, 

The  ethics  of  the  school  of  Christ ; 

The  statesman  to  his  holy  trust, 

As  the  Athenian  archon,  just. 

Struck  down,  exiled  like  him  for  truth  alone. 

Has  he  not  graced  my  home  with  beauty  all  his 
own? 

XVII 

What  greetings  smile,  what  farewells  wave. 
What  loved  ones  enter  and  depart ! 

The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  brave. 

The  Heaven-lent  treasures  of  the  heart ! 

How  conscious  seems  the  frozen  sod 
And  beechen  slope  whereon  they  trod ! 

The  oak-leaves  rustle,  and  the  dry  grass  bends 
Beneath  the  shadowy  feet  of  lost  or  absent 
friends. 


92  THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN 


XVIII 

Then  ask  not  why  to  these  bleak  hills 
I cling,  as  clings  the  tufted  moss, 

To  bear  the  winter’s  lingering  chills, 

The  mocking  spring’s  perpetual  loss. 

I dream  of  lands  where  summer  smiles, 

And  soft  winds  blow  from  spicy  isles, 

But  scarce  would  Ceylon’s  breath  of  flowers  be 
sweet. 

Could  I not  feel  thy  soil.  New  England,  at  my  feet  1 

XIX 

At  times  I long  for  gentler  skies. 

And  bathe  in  dreams  of  softer  air, 

But  homesick  tears  would  fill  the  eyes 
That  saw  the  Cross  without  the  Bear. 

The  pine  must  whisper  to  the  palm, 

The  north-wind  break  the  tropic  calmi ; 

And  with  the  dreamy  languor  of  the  Line, 

The  North’s  keen  virtue  blend,  and  strength  to 
beauty  join. 

XX 

Better  to  stem  with  heart  and  hand 
The  roaring  tide  of  life,  than  lie. 

Unmindful,  on  its  flowery  strand. 

Of  God’s  occasions  drifting  by ! 

Better  with  naked  nerve  to  bear 
The  needles  of  this  goading  air. 

Than,  in  the  lap  of  sensual  ease,  forego 

The  godlike  power  to  do,  the  godlike  aim  to  know. 


THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN  93 


XXI 

Home  of  my  heart ! to  me  more  fair 
Than  gay  Versailles  or  Windsor’s  halls, 

The  painted,  shingly  town-house  where 
The  freeman’s  vote  for  Freedom  falls ! 

The  simple  roof  where  prayer  is  made, 

Than  Gothic  groin  and  colonnade  ; 

The  living  temple  of  the  heart  of  man, 

Than  Kome’s  sky-mocking  vault,  or  many-spired 
Milan ! 

XXII 

More  dear  thy  equal  village  schools. 

Where  rich  and  poor  the  Bible  read. 

Than  classic  halls  where  Priestcraft  rules. 

And  Learning  wears  the  chains  of  Creed ; 

Thy  glad  Thanksgiving,  gathering  in 
The  scattered  sheaves  of  home  and  kin. 

Than  the  mad  license  ushering  Lenten  pains. 

Or  holidays  of  slaves  who  laugh  and  dance  in 
chains. 

xxm 

And  sweet  homes  nestle  in  these  dales. 

And  perch  along  these  wooded  swells ; 

And,  blest  beyond  Arcadian  vales. 

They  hear  the  sound  of  Sabbath  bells  ! 

Here  dwells  no  perfect  man  sublime. 

Nor  woman  winged  before  her  time. 

But  with  the  faults  and  follies  of  the  race. 

Old  home-bred  virtues  hold  their  not  unhonored 
place. 


94  the  last  walk  IN  AUTUMN 


XXIV 

^ Here  manhood  struggles  for  the  sake 
Of  mother,  sister,  daughter,  wife. 

The  graces  and  the  loves  which  make 
The  music  of  the  march  of  life  ; 

And  woman,  in  her  daily  round 
Of  duty,  walks  on  holy  ground. 

No  unpaid  menial  tills  the  soil,  nor  here 
Is  the  bad  lesson  learned  at  human  rights  to 
sneer. 

XXV 

Then  let  the  icy  north-wind  blow 
The  trumpets  of  the  coming  storm, 

To  arrowy  sleet  and  blinding  snow 
Yon  slanting  lines  of  rain  transform. 

Young  hearts  shall  hail  the  drifted  cold, 

' As  gayly  as  I did  of  old ; 

And  I,  who  watch  them  through  the  frosty  pane, 
Unenvious,  live  in  them  my  boyhood  o’er  again. 

XXVI 

And  I will  trust  that  He  who  heeds 
The  life  that  hides  in  mead  and  wold. 

Who  hangs  yon  alder’s  crimson  beads. 

And  stains  these  mosses  green  and  gold. 

Will  still,  as  He  hath  done,  incline 
His  gracious  care  to  me  and  mine ; 

Grant  what  we  ask  aright,  from  wrong  debar. 

And,  as  the  earth  grows  dark,  make  brighter 
every  star ! 


AN  OUTDOOR  RECEPTION 


95 


XXVII 

I have  not  seen,  I may  not  see, 

My  hopes  for  man  take  form  in  fact, 

But  God  will  give  the  victory 
In  due  time ; in  that  faith  I act. 

And  he  who  sees  the  future  sure, 

The  baffling  present  may  endure, 

And  bless,  meanwhile,  the  unseen  Hand  that  leads 
The  heart’s  desires  beyond  the  halting  step  of 
deeds. 

XXVIII 

And  thou,  my  song,  I send  thee  forth, 

Where  harsher  songs  of  mine  have  flown ; 

Go,  find  a place  at  home  and  hearth 
Where’er  thy  singer’s  name  is  known ; 

Revive  for  him  the  kindly  thought 
Of  friends ; and  they  who  love  him  not. 

Touched  by  some  strain  of  thine,  perchance  may 
take 

The  hand  he  proffers  all,  and  thank  him  for  thy 
sake. 

AN  OUTDOOR  RECEPTION 

The  substance  of  these  lines,  hastily  pencilled  several 
years  ago,  I find  among  such  of  my  unprinted  scraps  as 
have  escaped  the  waste-basket  and  the  fire.  In  transcrib- 
ing it  I have  made  some  changes,  additions,  and  omissions. 

ON  these  green  banks,  where  falls  too  soon 
The  shade  of  Autumn’s  afternoon. 


96 


AN  OUTDOOR  RECEPTION 


The  south  wind  blowing  soft  and  sweet, 
The  water  gliding  at  my  feet, 

The  distant  northern  range  uplit 
By  the  slant  sunshine  over  it, 

With  changes  of  the  mountain  mist 
From  tender  blush  to  amethyst, 

The  valley’s  stretch  of  shade  and  gleam 
Fair  as  in  Mirza’s  Bagdad  dream. 

With  glad  young  faces  smiling  near 
And  merry  voices  in  my  ear, 

I sit,  methinks,  as  Hafiz  might 
In  Iran’s  Garden  of  Delight. 

For  Persian  roses  blushing  red. 

Aster  and  gentian  bloom  instead ; 

For  Shiraz  wine,  this  mountain  air  ; 

For  feast,  the  blueberries  which  I share 
With  one  who  proffers  with  stained  hands 
Her  gleanings  from  yon  pasture  lands. 
Wild  fruit  that  art  and  culture  spoil. 

The  harvest  of  an  untilled  soil ; 

And  with  her  one  whose  tender  eyes 
Reflect  the  change  of  April  skies, 

Midway  ’twixt  child  and  maiden  yet. 
Fresh  as  Spring’s  earliest  violet; 

And  one  whose  look  and  voice  and  ways 
Make  where  she  goes  idyllic  days  ; 

And  one  whose  sweet,  still  countenance 
Seems  dreamful  of  a child’s  romance ; 

And  others,  welcome  as  are  these. 

Like  and  unlike,  varieties 
Of  pearls  on  nature’s  chaplet  strung, 

And  all  are  fair,  for  all  are  young. 


AN  OUTDOOR  RECEPTION 


97 


Gathered  from  seaside  cities  old, 

From  midland  prairie,  lake,  and  wold, 

From  the  great  wheat-fields,  which  might  feed 
The  hunger  of  a world  at  need. 

In  healthful  change  of  rest  and  play 
Their  school-vacations  glide  away. 

No  critics  these : they  only  see 
An  old  and  kindly  friend  in  me. 

In  whose  amused,  indulgent  look 
Their  innocent  mirth  has  no  rebuke. 

They  scarce  can  know  my  rugged  rhymes, 

The  harsher  songs  of  evil  times. 

Nor  graver  themes  in  minor  keys 
Of  life’s  and  death’s  solemnities ; 

But  haply,  as  they  bear  in  mind 
Some  verse  of  lighter,  happier  kind,  — 

Hints  of  the  boyhood  of  the  man, 

Youth  viewed  from  life’s  meridian, 

Half  seriously  and  haK  in  play 
My  pleasant  interviewers  pay 
Their  visit,  with  no  fell  intent 
Of  taking  notes  and  punishment. 

As  yonder  solitary  pine 

Is  ringed  below  with  flower  and  vine, 

More  favored  than  that  lonely  tree. 

The  bloom  of  girlhood  circles  me. 

In  such  an  atmosphere  of  youth 
I half  forget  my  age’s  truth  ; 

The  shadow  of  my  life’s  long  date 
Runs  backward  on  the  dial-plate, 


98 


AN  OUTDOOR  RECEPTION 


Until  it  seems  a step  might  span 
The  gulf  between  the  boy  and  man. 

My  young  friends  smile,  as  if  some  jay 
On  bleak  December’s  leafless  spray 
Essayed  to  sing  the  songs  of  May. 

Well,  let  them  smile,  and  live  to  know, 

When  their  brown  locks  are  flecked  with  snow, 
’T  is  tedious  to  be  always  sage 
And  pose  the  dignity  of  age. 

While  so  much  of  our  early  lives 
On  memory’s  playground  still  survives, 

And  owns,  as  at  the  present  hour. 

The  spell  of  youth’s  magnetic  power. 

But  though  I feel,  with  Solomon, 

’T  is  pleasant  to  behold  the  sun, 

I would  not  if  I could  repeat 
A life  which  still  is  good  and  sweet ; 

I keep  in  age,  as  in  my  prime, 

A not  uncheerful  step  with  time. 

And,  grateful  for  all  blessings  sent, 

I go  the  common  way,  content 
To  make  no  new  experiment. 

On  easy  terms  with  law  and  fate. 

For  what  must  be  I calmly  wait. 

And  trust  the  path  I cannot  see,  — 

That  God  is  good  sufficeth  me. 

And  when  at  last  on  life’s  strange  play 
The  curtain  falls,  I only  pray 
That  hope  may  lose  itself  in  truth. 

And  age  in  Heaven’s  immortal  youth, 


THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


99 


And  all  our  loves  and  longing  prove 
The  foretaste  of  diviner  love  I 

The  day  is  done.  Its  afterglow 
Along  the  west  is  burning  low. 

My  visitors,  like  birds,  have  flown  ; 

I hear  their  voices,  fainter  grown. 

And  dimly  through  the  dusk  I see 
Their  kerchiefs  wave  good-night  to  me,  — 
Light  hearts  of  girlhood,  knowing  naught 
Of  all  the  cheer  their  coming  brought ; 

And,  in  their  going,  unaware 
Of  silent-falling  feet  of  prayer : 

Heaven  make  their  budding  promise  good 
With  flowers  of  gracious  womanhood ! 

THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 

It  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  name  as  the  two  com- 
panions whom  I reckoned  with  myself  in  this  poetical 
picnic,  Fields  the  lettered  magnate,  and  Taylor  the  free 
cosmopolite.  The  long  line  of  sandy  beach  which  defines 
almost  the  whole  of  the  New  Hampshire  sea-coast  is  espe- 
cially marked,  near  its  southern  extremity,  by  the  salt- 
meadows  of  Hampton.  The  Hampton  River  winds  through 
these  meadows,  and  the  reader  may,  if  he  choose,  imagine 
my  tent  pitched  near  its  mouth,  where  also  was  the  scene 
of  the  Wreclc  of  Rivermouth,  The  green  bluff  to  the  north- 
ward is  Great  Boar’s  Head  ; southward  is  the  Merrimac, 
with  Newburyport  lifting  its  steeples  above  brown  roofs 
and  green  trees  on  its  banks.  [Mr.  Whittier  originally  de- 
signed following  the  Decameron  method  and  feigning  that 
each  person  read  his  own  poem,  but  abandoned  it  as  too 
hackneyed.] 


100  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


I WOULD  not  sin,  in  this  half-playful  strain, — 
Too  light  perhaps  for  serious  years,  though 
born 

Of  the  enforced  leisure  of  slow  pain,  — 

Against  the  pure  ideal  which  has  drawn 
My  feet  to  follow  its  far-shining  gleam. 

A simple  plot  is  mine  : legends  and  runes 
Of  credulous  days,  old  fancies  that  have  lain 
Silent  from  boyhood  taking  voice  again. 

Warmed  into  life  once  more,  even  as  the  tunes 
That,  frozen  in  the  fabled  hunting-horn. 

Thawed  into  sound  : — - a winter  fireside  dream 
Of  dawns  and  sunsets  by  the  summer  sea. 

Whose  sands  are  traversed  by  a silent  throng 
Of  voyagers  from  that  vaster  mystery 
Of  which  it  is  an  emblem ; — and  the  dear 
Memory  of  one  who  might  have  tuned  my  song 
To  sweeter  music  by  her  delicate  ear. 


When  heats  as  of  a tropic  clime 

Burned  all  our  inland  valleys  through, 

Three  friends,  the  guests  of  summer  time, 
Pitched  their  white  tent  where  sea-winds 
blew. 

Behind  them,  marshes,  seamed  and  crossed 
With  narrow  creeks,  and  flower-embossed. 
Stretched  to  the  dark  oak  wood,  whose  leafy  arms 
Screened  from  the  stormy  East  the  pleasant  in- 
land farms. 


THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH  101 

At  full  of  tide  their  bolder  shore 
Of  sun-bleached  sand  the  waters  beat ; 

At  ebb,  a smooth  and  glistening  floor 
They  touched  with  light,  receding  feet. 
Northward  a green  bluff  broke  the  chain 
Of  sand-hills  ; southward  stretched  a plain 
Of  salt  grass,  with  a river  winding  down. 

Sail  - whitened,  and  beyond  the  steeples  of  the 
town,  — 

Whence  sometimes,  when  the  wind  was  light 
And  dull  the  thunder  of  the  beach. 

They  heard  the  bells  of  morn  and  night 
Swing,  miles  away,  their  silver  speech. 

Above  low  scarp  and  turf-grown  wall 
They  saw  the  fort-flag  rise  and  fall ; 

And,  the  first  star  to  signal  twilight’s  hour. 

The  lamp-fire  glimmer  down  from  the  tall  light- 
house tower. 

They  rested  there,  escaped  awhile 
From  cares  that  wear  the  life  away, 

To  eat  the  lotus  of  the  Nile 
And  drink  the  poppies  of  Cathay,  — 

To  fling  their  loads  of  custom  down. 

Like  drift-weed,  on  the  sand-slopes  brown. 

And  in  the  sea-waves  drown  the  restless  pack 
Of  duties,  claims,  and  needs  that  barked  upon 
their  track. 

One,  with  his  beard  scarce  silvered,  bore 
A ready  credence  in  his  looks. 


102  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


A lettered  magnate,  lording  o’er 
An  ever-widening  realm  of  books. 

In  him  brain-currents,  near  and  far. 

Converged  as  in  a Leyden  jar ; 

The  old,  dead  authors  thronged  him  round  about, 
And  Elzevir’s  gray  ghosts  from  leathern  graves 
looked  out. 

He  knew  each  living  pundit  well. 

Could  weigh  the  gifts  of  him  or  her, 

And  well  the  market  value  tell 
Of  poet  and  philosopher. 

But  if  he  lost,  the  scenes  behind. 

Somewhat  of  reverence  vague  and  blind. 

Finding  the  actors  human  at  the  best. 

No  readier  lips  than  his  the  good  he  saw  confessed. 

His  boyhood  fancies  not  outgrown. 

He  loved  himself  the  singer’s  art ; 

Tenderly,  gently,  by  his  own 

He  knew  and  judged  an  author’s  heart. 

No  Rhadamanthine  brow  of  doom 
Bowed  the  dazed  pedant  from  his  room ; 

And  bards,  whose  name  is  legion,  if  denied. 

Bore  off  alike  intact  their  verses  and  their  pride. 

Pleasant  it  was  to  roam  about 

The  lettered  world  as  he  had  done. 

And  see  the  lords  of  song  without 
Their  singing  robes  and  garlands  on. 

With  Wordsworth  paddle  Rydal  mere. 

Taste  rugged  Elliott’s  home-brewed  beer. 


THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


103 


And  with  the  ears  of  Rogers,  at  fourscore, 

Hear  Garrick’s  buskined  tread  and  Walpole’s  wit 
once  more. 

And  one  there  was,  a dreamer  born. 

Who,  with  a mission  to  fulfil, 

Had  left  the  Muses’  haunts  to  turn 
The  crank  of  an  opinion-mill. 

Making  his  rustic  reed  of  song 
A weapon  in  the  war  with  wrong. 

Yoking  his  fancy  to  the  breaking-plough 
That  beam-deep  turned  the  soil  for  truth  to  spring 
and  grow. 

Too  quiet  seemed  the  man  to  ride 
The  winged  Hippogrifi  Reform  ; 

Was  his  a voice  from  side  to  side 
To  pierce  the  tumult  of  the  storm  ? 

A silent,  shy,  peace-loving  man. 

He  seemed  no  fiery  partisan 
To  hold  his  way  against  the  public  frown. 

The  ban  of  Church  and  State,  the  fierce  mob’s 
hounding  down. 

For  while  he  wrought  with  strenuous  will 
The  work  his  hands  had  found  to  do. 

He  heard  the  fitful  music  still 

Of  winds  that  out  of  dream-land  blew. 

The  din  about  him  could  not  drown 
What  the  strange  voices  whispered  down ; 

Along  his  task-field  weird  processions  swept. 

The  visionary  pomp  of  stately  phantoms  stepped. 


104  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


The  common  air  was  thick  with  dreams,  — 

He  told  them  to  the  toiling  crowd ; 

Such  music  as  the  woods  and  streams 
Sang  in  his  ear  he  sang  aloud ; 

In  still,  shut  bays,  on  windy  capes. 

He  heard  the  call  of  beckoning  shapes. 

And,  as  the  gray  old  shadows  prompted  him, 

To  homely  moulds  of  rhyme  he  shaped  their  le- 
gends grim. 

He  rested  now  his  weary  hands. 

And  lightly  moralized  and  laughed, 

As,  tracing  on  the  shifting  sands 
A burlesque  of  his  paper-craft. 

He  saw  the  careless  waves  o’errun 
His  words,  as  time  before  had  done. 

Each  day’s  tide-water  washing  clean  away, 

Like  letters  from  the  sand,  the  work  of  yesterday. 

And  one,  whose  Arab  face  was  tanned 
By  tropic  sun  and  boreal  frost. 

So  travelled  there  was  scarce  a land 
Or  people  left  him  to  exhaust. 

In  idling  mood  had  from  him  hurled 
The  poor  squeezed  orange  of  the  world. 

And  in  the  tent-shade,  sat  beneath  a palm. 
Smoked,  cross-legged  like  a Turk,  in  Oriental 
calm. 

The  very  waves  that  washed  the  sand 
Below  him,  he  had  seen  before 
Whitening  the  Scandinavian  strand 
And  sultry  Mauritanian  shore. 


THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


105 


From  ice-rimmed  isles,  from  summer  seas 
Palm-fringed,  they  bore  him  messages  ; 

He  heard  the  plaintive  Nubian  songs  again, 

And  mule-bells  tinkling  down  the  mountain-paths 
of  Spain. 

His  memory  round  the  ransacked  earth 
On  Puck's  long  girdle  slid  at  ease ; 

And,  instant,  to  the  valley's  girth 
Of  mountains,  spice  isles  of  the  seas, 

Faith  flowered  in  minster  stones.  Art's  guess 
At  truth  and  beauty,  found  access  ; 

Yet  loved  the  while,  that  free  cosmopolite. 

Old  friends,  old  ways,  and  kept  his  boyhood's 
dreams  in  sight. 

Untouched  as  yet  by  wealth  and  pride. 

That  virgin  innocence  of  beach  : 

No  shingly  monster,  hundred-eyed, 

Stared  its  gray  sand-birds  out  of  reach  ; 
Unhoused,  save  where,  at  intervals. 

The  white  tents  showed  their  canvas  walls. 
Where  brief  sojourners,  in  the  cool,  soft  air. 

Forgot  their  inland  heats,  hard  toil,  and  year-long 
care. 

Sometimes  along  the  wheel-deep  sand 
A one-horse  wagon  slowly  crawled. 

Deep  laden  with  a youthful  band. 

Whose  look  some  homestead  old  recalled ; 
Brother  perchance,  and  sisters  twain. 

And  one  whose  blue  eyes  told,  more  plain 


106  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


Than  the  free  language  of  her  rosy  lip, 

Of  the  still  dearer  claim  of  love’s  relationship. 

With  cheeks  of  russet-orchard  tint, 

The  light  laugh  of  their  native  rills, 

The  perfume  of  their  garden’s  mint, 

The  breezy  freedom  of  the  hills. 

They  bore,  in  unrestrained  delight, 

The  motto  of  the  Garter’s  knight. 

Careless  as  if  from  every  gazing  thing 
Hid  by  their  innocence,  as  Gyges  by  his  ring. 

The  clanging  sea-fowl  came  and  went. 

The  hunter’s  gun  in  the  marshes  rang ; 

At  nightfall  from  a neighboring  tent 
A flute-voiced  woman  sweetly  sang. 
Loose-haired,  barefooted,  hand-in-hand. 

Young  girls  went  tripping  down  the  sand ; 

And  youths  and  maidens,  sitting  in  the  moon, 
Dreamed  o’er  the  old  fond  dream  from  which  we 
wake  too  soon. 

At  times  their  fishing-lines  they  plied, 

With  an  old  Triton  at  the  oar. 

Salt  as  the  sea-wind,  tough  and  dried 
As  a lean  cusk  from  Labrador. 

Strange  tales  he  told  of  wreck  and  storm,  — 

Had  seen  the  sea-snake’s  awful  form. 

And  heard  the  ghosts  on  Haley’s  Isle  complain. 
Speak  him  ofl*  shore,  and  beg  a passage  to  old 
Spain  I 


THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH  107 


And  there,  on  breezy  morns,  they  saw 
The  fishing-schooners  outward  run, 

Their  low-bent  sails  in  tack  and  flaw 
Turned  white  or  dark  to  shade  and  sun. 
Sometimes,  in  calms  of  closing  day. 

They  watched  the  spectral  mirage  play. 

Saw  low,  far  islands  looming  tall  and  nigh, 

And  ships,  with  upturned  keels,  sail  like  a sea  the 
sky. 

Sometimes  a cloud,  with  thunder  black, 

Stooped  low  upon  the  darkening  main, 
Piercing  the  waves  along  its  track 
With  the  slant  javelins  of  rain. 

And  when  west-wind  and  sunshine  warm 
Chased  out  to  sea  its  wrecks  of  storm. 

They  saw  the  prismy  hues  in  thin  spray  showers 
Where  the  green  buds  of  waves  burst  into  white 
froth  flowers. 

And  when  along  the  line  of  shore 

The  mists  crept  upward  chill  and  damp, 
Stretched,  careless,  on  their  sandy  floor 
Beneath  the  flaring  lantern  lamp. 

They  talked  of  all  things  old  and  new, 

Bead,  slept,  and  dreamed  as  idlers  do  ; 

And  in  the  unquestioned  freedom  of  the  tent, 

Body  and  o’er-taxed  mind  to  healthful  ease  im- 
bent. 

Once,  when  the  simset  splendors  died. 

And,  trampling  up  the  sloping  sand. 


108  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


In  lines  outreaching  far  and  wide, 

The  white-maned  billows  swept  to  land, 

Dim  seen  across  the  gathering  shade, 

A vast  and  ghostly  cavalcade. 

They  sat  around  their  lighted  kerosene. 

Hearing  the  deep  bass  roar  their  every  pause  be- 
tween. 

Then,  urged  thereto,  the  Editor 
Within  his  full  portfolio  dipped. 

Feigning  excuse  while  searching  for 
(With  secret  pride)  his  manuscript. 

His  pale  face  flushed  from  eye  to  beard. 

With  nervous  cough  his  throat  he  cleared. 

And,  in  a voice  so  tremulous  it  betrayed 
The  anxious  fondness  of  an  author’s  heart,  he 
read : 

THE  WRECK  OF  RIVERMOUTH 

The  Goody  Cole  who  figures  in  this  poem  and  The  Change- 
ling was  Eunice  Cole,  who  for  a quarter  of  a century  or 
more  was  feared,  persecuted,  and  hated  as  the  witch  of 
Hampton.  She  lived  alone  in  a hovel  a little  distant  from 
the  spot  where  the  Hampton  Academy  now  stands,  and 
there  she  died,  unattended.  When  her  death  was  discov- 
ered, she  was  hastily  covered  up  in  the  earth  near  by,  and  a 
stake  driven  through  her  body,  to  exorcise  the  evil  spirit. 
[When  Goody  Cole  was  brought  before  the  Quarter  Sessions 
in  1680  to  answer  to  the  charge  of  being  a witch,  the  court 
could  not  find  satisfactory  evidence  of  witchcraft,  but  so 
strong  was  the  feeling  against  her  that  Major  Waldron,  the 
presiding  magistrate,  ordered  her  to  be  imprisoned  with  a 
lock  kept  on  her  leg  at  the  pleasure  of  the  court.  In  such 


THE  WRECK  OF  EIVERMOUTH  109 

judicial  action  one  can  read  the  fear  and  vindictive  spirit  of 
the  community  at  large.]  Rev.  Stephen  Bachiler  or  Batch- 
elder  was  one  of  the  ablest  of  the  early  New  England 
preachers.  His  marriage  late  in  life  to  a woman  regarded 
by  his  church  as  disreputable  induced  him  to  return  to  Eng- 
land, where  he  enjoyed  the  esteem  and  favor  of  Oliver 
Cromwell  during  the  Protectorate. 

Rivermouth  Rocks  are  fair  to  see, 

By  dawn  or  sunset  shone  across, 

When  the  ebb  of  the  sea  has  left  them  free 
To  dry  their  fringes  of  gold-green  moss  : 

For  there  the  river  comes  winding  down, 

From  salt  sea-meadows  and  uplands  brown, 

And  waves  on  the  outer  rocks  afoam 
Shout  to  its  waters,  ‘‘  Welcome  home  I ” 

And  fair  are  the  sunny  isles  in  view 
East  of  the  grisly  Head  of  the  Boar, 

And  Agamenticus  lifts  its  blue 
Disk  of  a cloud  the  woodlands  o’er ; 

And  southerly,  when  the  tide  is  down, 

’Twixt  white  sea-waves  and  sand-hills  brown. 

The  beach-birds  dance  and  the  gray  gulls  wheel 
Over  a floor  of  burnished  steel. 

Once,  in  the  old  Colonial  days. 

Two  hundred  years  ago  and  more, 

A boat  sailed  down  through  the  winding  ways 
Of  Hampton  River  to  that  low  shore. 

Full  of  a goodly  company 
Sailing  out  on  the  summer  sea. 

Veering  to  catch  the  land-breeze  light. 

With  the  Boar  to  left  and  the  Rocks  to  right,  j 


110  THE  TEKT  ON  THE  BEACH 


In  Hampton  meadows,  where  mowers  laid 
Their  scythes  to  the  swaths  of  salted  grass, 

“ Ah,  well-a-day  1 our  hay  must  be  made ! ” 

A young  man  sighed,  who  saw  them  pass. 

Loud  laughed  his  fellows  to  see  him  stand 
Whetting  his  scythe  with  a listless  hand, 

Hearing  a voice  in  a far-off  song, 

Watching  a white  hand  beckoning  long. 

“ Fie  on  the  witch ! ” cried  a merry  girl. 

As  they  rounded  the  point  where  Goody  Cole 
Sat  by  her  door  with  her  wheel  atwirl, 

A bent  and  blear-eyed  poor  old  soul. 

‘‘  Oho  ! ” she  muttered,  “ ye  ’re  brave  to-day  1 
But  I hear  the  little  waves  laugh  and  say, 

‘ The  broth  will  be  cold  that  waits  at  home ; 

For  it ’s  one  to  go,  but  another  to  come  1 ’ ” 

She ’s  cursed,”  said  the  skipper ; “ speak  her 
fair : 

I ’m  scary  always  to  see  her  shake 
Her  wicked  head,  with  its  wild  gray  hair, 

And  nose  like  a hawk,  and  eyes  like  a snake.” 
But  merrily  still,  with  laugh  and  shout. 

From  Hampton  River  the  boat  sailed  out. 

Till  the  huts  and  the ’flakes  on  Star  seemed  nigh. 
And  they  lost  the  scent  of  the  pines  of  Rye. 

They  dropped  their  lines  in  the  lazy  tide. 

Drawing  up  haddock  and  mottled  cod ; 

They  saw  not  the  Shadow  that  walked  beside, 

They  heard  not  the  feet  with  silence  shod. 


THE  WRECK  OF  RIVERMOUTH  111 


But  thicker  and  thicker  a hot  mist  grew, 

Shot  by  the  lightnings  through  and  through  ; 
And  muffled  growls,  like  the  growl  of  a beast, 
Ran  along  the  sky  from  west  to  east. 

Then  the  skipper  looked  from  the  darkening  sea 
Up  to  the  dimmed  and  wading  sun  ; 

But  he  spake  like  a brave  man  cheerily, 

“ Yet  there  is  time  for  our  homeward  run.” 
Veering  and  tacking,  they  backward  wore ; 

And  just  as  a breath  from  the  woods  ashore 
Blew  out  to  whisper  of  danger  past. 

The  wrath  of  the  storm  came  down  at  last ! 

The  skipper  hauled  at  the  heavy  sail : 

“ God  be  our  help  ! ” he  only  cried. 

As  the  roaring  gale,  like  the  stroke  of  a flail, 
Smote  the  boat  on  its  starboard  side. 

The  Shoalsmen  looked,  but  saw  alone 
Dark  films  of  rain-cloud  slantwise  blown, 

Wild  rocks  lit  up  by  the  lightning’s  glare. 

The  strife  and  torment  of  sea  and  air. 

Goody  Cole  looked  out  from  her  door  : 

The  Isles  of  Shoals  were  drowned  and  gone. 
Scarcely  she  saw  the  Head  of  the  Boar 
Toss  the  foam  from  tusks  of  stone. 

She  clasped  her  hands  with  a grip  of  pain, 

The  tear  on  her  cheek  was  not  of  rain  : 

‘‘  They  are  lost,”  she  muttered,  ‘‘  boat  and  crew  I 
Lord,  forgive  me  1 my  words  were  true  1 ” 


112  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


Suddenly  seaward  swept  the  squall ; 

The  low  sun  smote  through  cloudy  rack  ; 
The  Shoals  stood  clear  in  the  light,  and  all 
The  trend  of  the  coast  lay  hard  and  black. 
But  far  and  wide  as  eye  could  reach, 

No  life  was  seen  upon  wave  or  beach ; 

The  boat  that  went  out  at  morning  never 
Sailed  back  again  into  Hampton  Biver. 

O mower,  lean  on  thy  bended  snath, 

Look  from  the  meadows  green  and  low : 
The  wind  of  the  sea  is  a waft  of  death, 

The  waves  are  singing  a song  of  woe ! 

By  silent  river,  by  moaning  sea, 

Long  and  vain  shall  thy  watching  be : 

Never  again  shall  the  sweet  voice  call, 

Never  the  white  hand  rise  and  fall ! 

O Bivermouth  Bocks,  how  sad  a sight 
Ye  saw  in  the  light  of  breaking  day  I 
Dead  faces  looking  up  cold  and  white 
From  sand  and  seaweed  where  they  lay. 
The  mad  old  witch-wife  wailed  and  wept. 
And  cursed  the  tide  as  it  backward  crept : 

‘‘  Crawl  back,  crawl  back,  blue  water-snake ! 
Leave  your  dead  for  the  hearts  that  break ! ” 

Solemn  it  was  in  that  old  day 
In  Hampton  town  and  its  log-built  church. 
Where  side  by  side  the  coffins  lay 
And  the  mourners  stood  in  aisle  and  porch. 


THE  WRECK  OF  RIVERMOUTH  U3 


In  the  singing-seats  young  eyes  were  dim, 

The  voices  faltered  that  raised  the  hymn, 

And  Father  Dalton,  grave  and  stern, 

Sobbed  through  his  prayer  and  wept  in  turn. 

But  his  ancient  colleague  did  not  pray ; 

Under  the  weight  of  his  fourscore  years 
He  stood  apart  with  the  iron-gray 
Of  his  strong  brows  knitted  to  hide  his  tears ; 
And  a fair-faced  woman  of  doubtful  fame. 
Linking  her  own  with  his  honored  name. 

Subtle  as  sin,  at  his  side  withstood 
The  felt  reproach  of  her  neighborhood. 

Apart  with  them,  like  them  forbid. 

Old  Goody  Cole  looked  drearily  round. 

As,  two  by  two,  with  their  faces  hid. 

The  mourners  walked  to  the  burying-ground. 
She  let  the  staff  from  her  clasped  hands  fall : 

“ Lord,  forgive  us ! we  ’re  sinners  all  I ” 

And  the  voice  of  the  old  man  answered  her  ; 

“ Amen  1 ” said  Father  Bachiler. 

So,  as  I sat  upon  Appledore 
In  the  calm  of  a closing  summer  day. 

And  the  broken  lines  of  Hampton  shore 
In  purple  mist  of  cloudland  lay. 

The  Rivermouth  Rocks  their  story  told ; 

And  waves  aglow  with  sunset  gold. 

Rising  and  breaking  in  steady  chime. 

Beat  the  rhythm  and  kept  the  time. 


114  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 

And  the  sunset  paled,  and  warmed  once  more 
With  a softer,  tenderer  after-glow ; 

In  the  east  was  moon-rise,  with  boats  off-shore 
And  sails  in  the  distance  drifting  slow. 

The  beacon  glimmered  from  Portsmouth  bar, 
The  White  Isle  kindled  its  great  red  star; 

And  life  and  death  in  my  old-time  lay 
Mingled  in  peace  like  the  night  and  day ! 


Well  I ” said  the  Man  of  Books,  “ your  story 
Is  really  not  ill  told  in  verse. 

As  the  Celt  said  of  purgatory. 

One  might  go  farther  and  fare  worse.” 

The  Reader  smiled ; and  once  again 
With  steadier  voice  took  up  his  strain, 

While  the  fair  singer  from  the  neighboring  tent 
Drew  near,  and  at  his  side  a graceful  listener  bent. 

THE  GRAVE  BY  THE  LAKE 

At  the  mouth  of  the  Melvin  River,  which  empties  into 
Moultonboro  Bay  in  Lake  Winnipesaukee,  is  a great  mound. 
The  Ossipee  Indians  had  their  home  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  bay,  which  is  plentifully  stocked  with  fish,  and  many 
relics  of  their  occupation  have  been  found. 

W HERE  the  Great  Lakeys  sunny  smiles 
Dimple  round  its  hundred  isles. 

And  the  mountain’s  granite  ledge 
Cleaves  the  water  like  a wedge. 

Binged  about  with  smooth,  gray  stones, 

Rest  the  giant’s  mighty  bones. 


THE  GRAVE  BY  THE  LAKE  115 


Close  beside,  in  shade  and  gleam, 
Laughs  and  ripples  Melvin  stream ; 
Melvin  water,  mountain-born. 

All  fair  flowers  its  banks  adorn ; 

All  the  woodland  voices  meet. 
Mingling  with  its  murmurs  sweet. 

Over  lowlands  forest-grown, 

Over  waters  island-strown. 

Over  silver-sanded  beach. 

Leaf-locked  bay  and  misty  reach, 
Melvin  stream  and  burial-heap. 
Watch  and  ward  the  mountains  keep. 

Who  that  Titan  cromlech  fills  ? 
Forest-kaiser,  lord  o’  the  hills  ? 
Knight  who  on  the  birchen  tree 
Carved  his  savage  heraldry  ? 

Priest  o’  the  pine-wood  temples  dim. 
Prophet,  sage,  or  wizard  grim  ? 

Rugged  type  of  primal  man. 

Grim  utilitarian. 

Loving  WQods  for  hunt  and  prowl. 
Lake  and  hill  for  fish  and  fowl. 

As  the  brown  bear  blind  and  dull 
To  the  grand  and  beautiful : 

‘Not  for  him  the  lesson  drawn’ 

^ From  the  mountains  smit  with  dawn. 
Star-rise,  moon-rise,  flowers  of  May, 
Sunset’s  purple  bloom  of  day,  — 


116  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


Took  his  life  no  hue  from  thence, 
Poor  amid  such  affluence  ? 

Haply  unto  hill  and  tree 
All  too  near  akin  was  he  : 

Unto  him  who  stands  afar 
Nature’s  marvels  greatest  are ; 

Who  the  mountain  purple  seeks 
Must  not  climb  the  higher  peaks. 

Yet  who  knows,  in  winter  tramp, 

Or  the  midnight  of  the  camp, 

What  revealings  faint  and  far. 
Stealing  down  from  moon  and  star. 
Kindled  in  that  human  clod 
Thought  of  destiny  and  God? 

Stateliest  forest  patriarch. 

Grand  in  robes  of  skin  and  bark. 
What  sepulchral  mysteries. 

What  weird  funeral-rites,  were  his  ? 
What  sharp  wail,  what  drear  lament. 
Back  scared  wolf  and  eagle  sent  ? 

Now,  whate’er  he  may  have  been, 

Low  he  lies  as  other  men ; 

On  his  mound  the  partridge  drums. 
There  the  noisy  blue-jay  comes ; 

Bank  nor  name  nor  pomp  has  he 
In  the  grave’s  democracy. 

Part  thy  blue  lips.  Northern  lake ! 
Moss-grown  rocks,  your  silence  break ! 


THE  GRAVE  BY  THE  LAKE  117 


Tell  the  tale,  thou  ancient  tree  ! 
Thou,  too,  slide-worn  Ossipee  ! 

Speak,  and  tell  us  how  and  when 
Lived  and  died  this  king  of  men  I 

Wordless  moans  the  ancient  pine; 
Lake  and  mountain  give  no  sign  ; 
Vain  to  trace  this  ring  of  stones  ; 
Vain  the  search  of  crumbling  bones  : 
Deepest  of  all  mysteries. 

And  the  saddest,  silence  is. 

Nameless,  noteless,  clay  with  clay 
Mingles  slowly  day  by  day  ; 

But  somewhere,  for  good  or  ill, 

That  dark  soul  is  living  still ; 
Somewhere  yet  that  atom’s  force 
Moves  the  light-poised  universe. 

Strange  that  on  his  burial-sod 
Harebells  bloom,  and  golden-rod, 
While  the  soul’s  dark  horoscope 
Holds  no  starry  sign  of  hope ! 

Is  the  Unseen  with  sight  at  odds  ? 
Nature’s  pity  more  than  God’s  ? 

Thus  I mused  by  Melvin’s  side. 
While  the  summer  eventide 
Made  the  woods  and  inland  sea 
And  the  mountains  mystery ; 

And  the  hush  of  earth  and  air 
Seemed  the  pause  before  a prayer,  — 


118  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


Prayer  for  him,  for  all  who  rest, 
Mother  Earth,  upon  thy  breast,  — 
Lapped  on  Christian  turf,  or  hid 
In  rock-cave  or  pyramid  : 

All  who  sleep,  as  all  who  live. 

Well  may  need  the  prayer,  “ Forgive  I ” 

Desert-smothered  caravan. 

Knee-deep  dust  that  once  was  man, 
Battle-trenches  ghastly  piled. 
Ocean-floors  with  white  bones  tiled. 
Crowded  tomb  and  mounded  sod, 
Dumbly  crave  that  prayer  to  God. 

Oh,  the  generations  old 
Over  whom  no  church-bells  tolled, 
Christless,  lifting  up  blind  eyes 
To  the  silence  of  the  skies  1 
For  the  innumerable  dead 
Is  my  soul  disquieted. 

Where  be  now  these  silent  hosts  ? 
Where  the  camping-ground  of  ghosts  ? 
Where  the  spectral  conscripts  led 
To  the  white  tents  of  the  dead  ? 

What  strange  shore  or  chartless  sea 
Holds  the  awful  mystery  ? 

Then  the  warm  sky  stooped  to  make 
Double  sunset  in  the  lake  ; 

While  above  I saw  with  it, 

Range  on  range,  the  mountains  lit ; 


THE  GRAVE  BY  THE  LAKE  119 


And  the  calm  and  splendor  stole 
Like  an  answer  to  my  soul. 

Hear’st  thou,  O of  little  faith, 

What  to  thee  the  mountain  saith, 
What  is  whispered  by  the  trees?  — 
Cast  on  God  thy  care  for  these  ; 
Trust  Him,  if  thy  sight  be  dim : 
Doubt  for  them  is  doubt  of  Him. 

‘‘  Blind  must  be  their  close-shut  eyes 
Where  like  night  the  sunshine  lies, 
Fiery-linked  the  self-forged  chain 
Binding  ever  sin  to  pain. 

Strong  their  prison-house  of  will, 

But  without  He  waiteth  still. 

“ Kot  with  hatred’s  undertow 
Doth  the  Love  Eternal  flow  ; 

Every  chain  that  spirits  wear 
Crumbles  in  the  breath  of  prayer  ; 
And  the  penitent’s  desire 
Opens  every  gate  of  fire. 

“ Still  Thy  love,  O Christ  arisen. 
Yearns  to  reach  these  souls  in  prison  I 
Through  all  depths  of  sin  and  loss 
Drops  the  plummet  of  Thy  cross  ! 
Never  yet  abyss  was  found 
Deeper  than  that  cross  could  sound  I ” 

Therefore  well  may  Nature  keep 
Equal  faith  with  all  who  sleep, 


120 


THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


Set  her  watch  of  hills  around 
Christian  grave  and  heathen  monnd, 
And  to  cairn  and  kirkyard  send 
Summer's  flowery  dividend. 

Keep,  O pleasant  Melvin  stream, 

Thy  sweet  laugh  in  shade  and  gleam ! 
On  the  Indian’s  grassy  tomb 
Swing,  O flowers,  your  bells  of  bloom ! 
Deep  below,  as  high  above. 

Sweeps  the  circle  of  God’s  love. 


He  paused  and  questioned  with  his  eye 
The  hearers’  verdict  on  his  song. 

A low  voice  asked ; “ Is ’t  well  to  pry 
Into  the  secrets  which  belong 
Only  to  God  ? — The  life  to  be 
Is  still  the  unguessed  mystery  : 

Unsealed,  unpierced  the  cloudy  walls  remain. 

We  beat  with  dream  and  wish  the  soundless  doors 
in  vain. 

« But  faith  beyond  our  sight  may  go.” 

He  said : “ The  gracious  Fatherhood 
Can  only  know  above,  below, 

Eternal  purposes  of  good. 

From  our  free  heritage  of  will. 

The  bitter  springs  of  pain  and  ill 
Flow  only  in  all  worlds.  The  perfect  day 
Of  God  is  shadowless,  and  love  is  love  alway.” 


THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH  121 


‘‘  I know,”  she  said,  “ the  letter  kills  ; 

That  on  our  arid  fields  of  strife 
And  heat  of  clashing  texts  distils 
The  dew  of  spirit  and  of  life. 

But,  searching  still  the  written  Word, 

I fain  would  find,  Thus  saith  the  Lord, 

A voucher  for  the  hope  I also  feel 
That  sin  can  give  no  wound  beyond  love’s  power 
to  heal.” 

“ Pray,”  said  the  Man  of  Books,  “ give  o’er 
A theme  too  vast  for  time  and  place. 

Go  on.  Sir  Poet,  ride  once  more 
Your  hobby  at  his  old  free  pace. 

But  let  him  keep,  with  step  discreet. 

The  solid  earth  beneath  his  feet. 

In  the  great  mystery  which  around  us  lies. 

The  wisest  is  a fool,  the  fool  Heaven  - helped  is 
wise.” 

The  Traveller  said ; ‘‘  If  songs  have  creeds. 

Their  choice  of  them  let  singers  make ; 

But  Art  no  other  sanction  needs 
Than  beauty  for  its  own  fair  sake. 

It  grinds  not  in  the  mill  of  use. 

Nor  asks  for  leave,  nor  begs  excuse  ; 

It  makes  the  flexile  laws  it  deigns  to  own. 

And  gives  its  atmosphere  its  color  and  its  tone. 

“ Confess,  old  friend,  your  austere  school 
Has  left  your  fancy  little  chance  ; 

You  square  to  reason’s  rigid  rule 
The  flowing  outlines  of  romance. 


122  THE  TEKT  ON  THE  BEACH 


With  conscience  keen  from  exercise, 

And  chronic  fear  of  compromise, 

You  check  the  free  play  of  your  rhymes,  to  clap 
A moral  underneath,  and  spring  it  like  a trap.” 

The  sweet  voice  answered  : “ Better  so 
Than  bolder  flights  that  know  no  check ; 
Better  to  use  the  bit,  than  throw 
The  reins  all  loose  on  fancy’s  neck. 

The  liberal  range  of  Art  should  be 
The  breadth  of  Christian  liberty, 

Restrained  alone  by  challenge  and  alarm 
Where  its  charmed  footsteps  tread  the  border  land 
of  harm. 

“ Beyond  the  poet’s  sweet  dream  lives 
The  eternal  epic  of  the  man. 

He  wisest  is  who  only  gives. 

True  to  himself,  the  best  he  can ; 

Who,  drifting  in  the  winds  of  praise. 

The  inward  monitor  obeys ; 

And,  with  the  boldness  that  confesses  fear. 

Takes  in  the  crowded  sail,  and  lets  his  conscience 
steer. 

“ Thanks  for  the  fitting  word  he  speaks, 

Nor  less  for  doubtful  word  unspoken. 

For  the  false  model  that  he  breaks. 

As  for  the  moulded  grace  unbroken ; 

For  what  is  missed  and  what  remains. 

For  losses  which  are  truest  gains. 

For  reverence  conscious  of  the  Eternal  eye. 

And  truth  too  fair  to  need  the  garnish  of  a lie.” 


THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH  123 


Laughing,  the  Critic  bowed.  “ I yield 
The  point  without  another  word; 

Who  ever  yet  a case  appealed 
Where  beauty’s  judgment  had  been  heard  ? 
And  you,  my  good  friend,  owe  to  me 
Your  warmest  thanks  for  such  a plea. 

As  true  withal  as  sweet.  For  my  offence 
Of  cavil,  let  her  words  be  ample  recompense.” 

Across  the  sea  one  lighthouse  star, 

With  crimson  ray  that  came  and  went, 
Kevolving  on  its  tower  afar. 

Looked  through  the  doorway  of  the  tent. 
While  outward,  over  sand-slopes  wet. 

The  lamp  flashed  down  its  yellow  jet 
On  the  long  wash  of  waves,  with  red  and  green 
Tangles  of  weltering  weed  through  the  white  foam- 
wreaths  seen. 

“ ^ Sing  while  we  may,  — another  day 

May  bring  enough  of  sorrow ; ’ — thus 
Our  Traveller  in  his  own  sweet  lay, 

His  Crimean  camp-song,  hints  to  us,” 

The  lady  said.  “ So  let  it  be ; 

Sing  us  a song,”  exclaimed  all  three. 

She  smiled : “ I can  but  marvel  at  your  choice 
To  hear  our  poet’s  words  through  my  poor  bor- 
rowed voice.” 

Her  window  opens  to  the  bay. 

On  glistening  light  or  misty  gray. 

And  there  at  dawn  and  set  of  day 
In  prayer  she  kneels. 


124  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


Dear  Lord ! ” she  saith,  “ to  many  a home 
From  wind  and  wave  the  wanderers  come 
I only  see  the  tossing  foam 
Of  stranger  keels. 

Blown  out  and  in  by  summer  gales, 

The  stately  ships,  with  crowded  sails, 

And  sailors  leaning  o’er  their  rails, 

Before  me  glide ; 

They  come,  they  go,  but  nevermore, 
Spicedaden  from  the  Indian  shore, 

I see  his  swift-winged  Isidore 
The  waves  divide. 

“ O Thou ! with  whom  the  night  is  day 
And  one  the  near  and  far  away. 

Look  out  on  yon  gray  waste,  and  say 
Where  lingers  he. 

Alive,  perchance,  on  some  lone  beach 
Or  thirsty  isle  beyond  the  reach 
Of  man,  he  hears  the  mocking  speech 
Of  wind  and  sea. 

“ O dread  and  cruel  deep,  reveal 
The  secret  which  thy  waves  conceal. 

And,  ye  wild  sea-birds,  hither  wheel 
And  tell  your  tale. 

Let  winds  that  tossed  his  raven  hair 
A message  from  my  lost  one  bear,  — 
Some  thought  of  me,  a last  fond  prayer 
Or  dying  wail  1 


THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH  125 


‘‘  Come,  with  your  dreariest  truth  shut  out 
The  fears  that  haunt  me  round  about ; 

O God  1 I cannot  bear  this  doubt 
That  stifles  breath. 

The  worst  is  better  than  the  dread ; 

Give  me  but  leave  to  mourn  my  dead 
Asleep  in  trust  and  hope,  instead 
Of  life  in  death  I ” 

It  might  have  been  the  evening  breeze 
That  whispered  in  the  garden  trees, 

It  might  have  been  the  sound  of  seas 
That  rose  and  fell ; 

But,  with  her  heart,  if  not  her  ear, 

The  old  loved  voice  she  seemed  to  hear : 

“ I wait  to  meet  thee ; be  of  cheer, 

For  all  is  well ! ” 


The  sweet  voice  into  silence  went, 

A silence  which  was  almost  pain 
As  through  it  rolled  the  long  lament, 

The  cadence  of  the  mournful  main. 

Glancing  his  written  pages  o’er. 

The  Header  tried  his  part  once  more  ; 

Leaving  the  land  of  hackmatack  and  pine 

For  Tuscan  valleys  glad  with  olive  and  with  vine. 


126  THE  TE^T  ON  THE  BEACH 


THE  BROTHER  OF  MERCY 

Piero  Luca,  known  of  all  the  town 
As  the  gray  porter  by  the  Pitti  wall 
Where  the  noon  shadows  of  the  gardens  fall, 

Sick  and  in  dolor,  waited  to  lay  down 
His  last  sad  burden,  and  beside  his  mat 
The  barefoot  monk  of  La  Certosa  sat. 

Unseen,  in  square  and  blossoming  garden  drifted, 
Soft  sunset  lights  through  green  Yal  d*  Arno 
sifted ; 

Unheard,  below  the  living  shuttles  shifted 
Backward  and  forth,  and  wove,  in  love  or  strife. 

In  mirth  or  pain,  the  mottled  web  of  life  : 

But  when  at  last  came  upward  from  the  street 
Tinkle  of  bell  and  tread  of  measured  feet, 

The  sick  man  started,  strove  to  rise  in  vain. 
Sinking  back  heavily  with  a moan  of  pain. 

And  the  monk  said,  “ ’T  is  but  the  Brotherhood 
Of  Mercy  going  on  some  errand  good  : 

Their  black  masks  by  the  palace-wall  I see.” 

Piero  answered  faintly,  <<  Woe  is  me  ! 

This  day  for  the  first  time  in  forty  years 
In  vain  the  bell  hath  sounded  in  my  ears, 

Calling  me  with  my  brethren  of  the  mask, 

Beggar  and  prince  alike,  to  some  new  task 
Of  love  or  pity,  — haply  from  the  street 
To  bear  a wretch  plague-stricken,  or,  with  feet 
Hushed  to  the  quickened  ear  and  feverish  brain, 

To  tread  the  crowded  lazaretto’s  fioors. 


THE  BROTHER  OF  MERCY 


127 


Down  the  long  twilight  of  the  corridors, 

Midst  tossing  arms  and  faces  full  of  pain. 

I loved  the  work : it  was  its  own  reward. 

I never  counted  on  it  to  offset 

My  sins,  which  are  many,  or  make  less  my  debt 

To  the  free  grace  and  mercy  of  our  Lord ; 

But  somehow,  father,  it  has  come  to  be 
In  these  long  years  so  much  a part  of  me, 

I should  not  know  myself,  if  lacking  it. 

But  with  the  work  the  worker  too  would  die. 

And  in  my  place  some  other  self  would  sit 
Joyful  or  sad,  — what  matters,  if  not  I ? 

And  now  all ’s  over.  Woe  is  me  ! ” — “ My  son,” 
The  monk  said  soothingly,  “ thy  work  is  done ; 
And  no  more  as  a servant,  but  the  guest 
Of  God,  thou  enterest  thy  eternal  rest. 

No  toil,  no  tears,  no  sorrow  for  the  lost. 

Shall  mar  thy  perfect  bliss.  Thou  shalt  sit  down 
Clad  in  white  robes,  and  wear  a golden  crown 
Forever  and  forever.”  — Piero  tossed 
On  his  sick-pillow : “ Miserable  me  ! 

I am  too  poor  for  such  grand  company ; 

The  crown  would  be  too  heavy  for  this  gray 
Old  head ; and  God  forgive  me  if  I say 
It  would  be  hard  to  sit  there  night  and  day. 

Like  an  image  in  the  Tribune,  doing  naught 
With  these  hard  hands,  that  all  my  life  have 
wrought. 

Not  for  bread  only,  but  for  pity’s  sake. 

I ’m  dull  at  prayers  : I could  not  keep  awake. 
Counting  my  beads.  Mine ’s  but  a crazy  head. 
Scarce  worth  the  saving,  if  all  else  be  dead. 


128  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


And  if  one  goes  to  heaven  without  a heart, 

God  knows  he  leaves  behind  his  better  part. 

I love  my  fellow-men  ; the  worst  I know 
I would  do  good  to.  Will  death  change  me  so 
That  I shall  sit  among  the  lazy  saints, 

Turning  a deaf  ear  to  the  sore  complaints 
Of  souls  that  suffer?  Why,  I never  yet 
Left  a poor  dog  in  the  strada  hard  beset. 

Or  ass  overladen ! Must  I rate  man  less 
Than  dog  or  ass,  in  holy  selfishness  ? 

Methinks  (Lord,  pardon,  if  the  thought  be  sin  I) 
The  world  of  pain  were  better,  if  therein 
One’s  heart  might  still  be  human,  and  desires 
Of  natural  pity  drop  upon  its  fires 
Some  cooling  tears.” 

Thereat  the  pale  monk  crossed 
His  brow,  and  muttering,  “ Madman ! thou  art 
lost  1 ” 

Took  up  his  pyx  and  fled ; and,  left  alone. 

The  sick  man  closed  his  eyes  with  a great  groan 
That  sank  into  a prayer,  Thy  will  be  done ! ” 

Then  was  he  made  aware,  by  soul  or  ear. 

Of  somewhat  pure  and  holy  bending  o’er  him, 

And  of  a voice  like  that  of  her  who  bore  him. 
Tender  and  most  compassionate  : “ Never  fear  I 
For  heaven  is  love,  as  God  himself  is  love ; 

Thy  work  below  shall  be  thy  work  above.” 

And  when  he  looked,  lo  I in  the  stern  monk’s 
place 

He  saw  the  shining  of  an  angel’s  face  I 


THE  CHANGELING 


129 


The  Traveller  broke  the  pause.  ‘‘  I ’ve  seen 
The  Brothers  down  the  long  street  steal, 
Black,  silent,  masked,  the  crowd  between, 

And  felt  to  dof£  my  hat  and  kneel 
With  heart,  if  not  with  knee,  in  prayer. 

For  blessings  on  their  pious  care.” 

The  Keader  wiped  his  glasses  : “ Friends  of  mine. 
We  11  try  our  home-brewed  next,  instead  of  for- 
eign wine.” 


THE  CHANGELINTG 

For  the  fairest  maid  in  Hampton 
They  needed  not  to  search. 

Who  saw  young  Anna  Favor 
Come  walking  into  church,  — 

Or  bringing  from  the  meadows, 

At  set  of  harvest-day. 

The  frolic  of  the  blackbirds. 

The  sweetness  of  the  hay. 

Now  the  weariest  of  all  mothers. 

The  saddest  two  years’  bride. 

She  scowls  in  the  face  of  her  husband. 
And  spurns  her  child  aside. 

Bake  out  the  red  coals,  goodman,  — 
For  there  the  child  shall  lie. 

Till  the  black  witch  comes  to  fetch  her 
And  both  up  chimney  fly. 


130  THE  TEOT  ON  THE  BEACH 


It ’s  never  my  own  little  daughter, 

It ’s  never  my  own,”  she  said; 

“ The  witches  have  stolen  my  Anna, 

And  left  me  an  imp  instead. 

“ Oh,  fair  and  sweet  was  my  baby. 

Blue  eyes,  and  hair  of  gold ; 

But  this  is  ugly  and  wrinkled. 

Cross,  and  cunning,  and  old. 

I hate  the  touch  of  her  fingers, 

I hate  the  feel  of  her  skin ; 

It ’s  not  the  milk  from  my  bosom. 

But  my  blood,  that  she  sucks  in. 

‘^My  face  grows  sharp  with  the  torment ; 
Look  ! my  arms  are  skin  and  bone  i 

Bake  open  the  red  coals,  goodman. 

And  the  witch  shall  have  her  own. 

‘‘  She  ’ll  come  when  she  hears  it  crying. 
In  the  shape  of  an  owl  or  bat. 

And  she  ’ll  bring  us  our  darling  Anna 
In  place  of  her  screeching  brat.” 

Then  the  goodman,  Ezra  Dalton, 

Laid  his  hand  upon  her  head : 

“ Thy  sorrow  is  great,  O woman  I 
I sorrow  with  thee,”  he  said. 

The  paths  to  trouble  are  many. 

And  never  but  one  sure  way 


131 


THE  CHANGELmG 

Leads  out  to  the  light  beyond  it : 

My  poor  wife,  let  us  pray.” 

Then  he  said  to  the  great  All-Father, 

“ Thy  daughter  is  weak  and  blind ; 

Let  her  sight  come  back,  and  clothe  her 
Once  more  in  her  right  mind. 

Lead  her  out  of  this  evil  shadow, 

Out  of  these  fancies  wild ; 

Let  the  holy  love  of  the  mother 
Turn  again  to  her  child. 

«Make  her  lips  like  the  lips  of  Mary 
Kissing  her  blessed  Son  ; 

Let  her  hands,  like  the  hands  of  Jesus, 
Rest  on  her  little  one. 

Comfort  the  soul  of  thy  handmaid. 

Open  her  prison-door. 

And  thine  shall  be  all  the  glory 
And  praise  forevermore.” 

Then  into  the  face  of  its  mother 
The  baby  looked  up  and  smiled; 

And  the  cloud  of  her  soul  was  lifted. 

And  she  knew  her  little  child. 

A beam  of  the  slant  west  sunshine 
Made  the  wan  face  almost  fair. 

Lit  the  blue  eyes’  patient  wonder 
And  the  rings  of  pale  gold  hair. 


132  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


She  kissed  it  on  lip  and  forehead, 

She  kissed  it  on  cheek  and  chin, 

And  she  bared  her  snow-white  bosom 
To  the  lips  so  pale  and  thin. 

Oh,  fair  on  her  bridal  morning 
Was  the  maid  who  blushed  and  smiled, 

But  fairer  to  Ezra  Dalton 
Looked  the  mother  of  his  child. 

With  more  than  a lover’s  fondness 
He  stooped  to  her  worn  young  face. 

And  the  nursing  child  and  the  mother 
He  folded  in  one  embrace. 

Blessed  be  God ! ” he  murmured. 

“ Blessed  be  God ! ” she  said ; 

For  I see,  who  once  was  blinded,  — 

I live,  who  once  was  dead. 

‘‘  Now  mount  and  ride,  my  goodman, 

As  thou  lovest  thy  own  soul ! 

Woe ’s  me,  if  my  wicked  fancies 
Be  the  death  of  Goody  Cole  ! ” 

His  horse  he  saddled  and  bridled. 

And  into  the  night  rode  he. 

Now  through  the  great  black  woodland, 
Now  by  the  white-beached  sea. 

He  rode  through  the  silent  clearings. 

He  came  to  the  ferry  wide. 


THE  CHANGELING 


133 


And  thrice  he  called  to  the  boatman 
Asleep  on  the  other  side. 

He  set  his  horse  to  the  river, 

He  swam  to  Newbury  town, 

And  he  called  up  Justice  Sewall 
In  his  nightcap  and  his  gown. 

And  the  grave  and  worshipful  justice 
(Upon  whose  soul  be  peace  !) 

Set  his  name  to  the  jailer’s  warrant 
For  Goodwife  Cole’s  release. 

Then  through  the  night  the  hoof-beats 
Went  sounding  like  a flail ; 

And  Goody  Cole  at  cockcrow 
Came  forth  from  Ipswich  jail. 


Here  is  a rhyme : I hardly  dare 
To  venture  on  its  theme  worn  out ; 

What  seems  so  sweet  by  Boon  and  Ayr 
Sounds  simply  silly  hereabout ; 

And  pipes  by  lips  Arcadian  blown 
Are  only  tin  horns  at  our  own. 

Yet  still  the  muse  of  pastoral  walks  with  us. 
While  Hosea  Biglow  sings,  our  new  Theocritus.” 


134  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


THE  MAIDS  OF  ATTITASH 

Attitash,  an  Indian  word  signifying  ^^huckleberry/*  is 
the  name  of  a large  and  beautiful  lake  in  the  northern  part 
of  Amesbury.  [In  a letter  to  Mr.  Fields,  Whittier  wrote  : 
I should  like  to  show  thee  Attitash,  as  it  is  as  pretty  as 
St.  Mary*s  Lake  which  Wordsworth  sings,  in  fact  a great 
deal  prettier.  The  glimpse  of  the  Pawtuckaway  range  of 
mountains  in  Nottingham  seen  across  it  is  very  fine,  and  it 
has  noble  groves  of  pines  and  maples  and  ash  trees.”] 

In  sky  and  wave  the  white  clouds  swam, 

And  the  blue  hills  of  Nottingham 
Through  gaps  of  leafy  green 
Across  the  lake  were  seen, 

When,  in  the  shadow  of  the  ash 
That  dreams  its  dream  in  Attitash, 

In  the  warm  summer  weather. 

Two  maidens  sat  together. 

They  sat  and  watched  in  idle  mood 
The  gleam  and  shade  of  lake  and  wood ; 

The  beach  the  keen  light  smote. 

The  white  sail  of  a boat ; 

Swan  flocks  of  lilies  shoreward  lying, 

In  sweetness,  not  in  music,  dying  ; 

Hardback,  and  virgin’s-bower. 

And  white-spiked  clethra-flower. 

With  careless  ears  they  heard  the  plash 
And  breezy  wash  of  Attitash, 


THE  MAIDS  OF  ATTITASH 


135 


The  wood-bird’s  plaintive  cry, 

The  locust’s  sharp  reply. 

And  teased  the  while,  with  playful  hand, 
The  shaggy  dog  of  Newfoundland, 
Whose  uncouth  frolic  spilled 
Their  baskets  berry-filled. 

Then  one,  the  beauty  of  whose  eyes 
Was  evermore  a great  surprise. 

Tossed  back  her  queenly  head. 

And  lightly  laughing,  said : 

‘‘  No  bridegroom’s  hand  be  mine  to  hold 
That  is  not  lined  with  yellow  gold ; 

I tread  no  cottage-floor ; 

I own  no  lover  poor. 

‘‘  My  love  must  come  on  silken  wings. 
With  bridal  lights  of  diamond  rings. 

Not  foul  with  kitchen  smirch, 

With  tallow-dip  for  torch.” 

The  other,  on  whose  modest  head 
Was  lesser  dower  of  beauty  shed, 

With  look  for  home-hearths  meet. 

And  voice  exceeding  sweet. 

Answered,  “We  will  not  rivals  be  ; 

Take  thou  the  gold,  leave  love  to  me ; 
Mine  be  the  cottage  small. 

And  thine  the  rich  man’s  hall. 


136  THE  TEOT  ON  THE  BEACH 


I know,  indeed,  that  wealth  is  good ; 

But  lowly  roof  and  simple  food. 

With  love  that  hath  no  doubt, 

Are  more  than  gold  without.” 

Hard  by  a farmer  hale  and  young 

His  cradle  in  the  rye-field  swung. 
Tracking  the  yellow  plain 
With  windrows  of  ripe  grain. 

And  still,  whene’er  he  paused  to  whet 

His  scythe,  the  sidelong  glance  he  met 
Of  large  dark  eyes,  where  strove 
False  pride  and  secret  love. 

Be  strong,  young  mower  of  the  grain ; 

That  love  shall  overmatch  disdain, 

Its  instincts  soon  or  late 
The  heart  shall  vindicate. 

In  blouse  of  gray,  with  fishing-rod. 

Half  screened  by  leaves,  a stranger  trod 
The  margin  of  the  pond. 

Watching  the  group  beyond. 

The  supreme  hours  unnoted  come ; 

Unfelt  the  turning  tides  of  doom ; 

And  so  the  maids  laughed  on. 

Nor  dreamed  what  fate  had  done,  — 

Nor  knew  the  step  was  Destiny’s 

That  rustled  in  the  birchen  trees. 


THE  MAIDS  OF  ATTITASH  137 


As,  with  their  lives  forecast, 

Fisher  and  mower  passed. 

Erelong  by  lake  and  rivulet  side 
The  summer  roses  paled  and  died, 

And  Autumn’s  fingers  shed 
The  maple’s  leaves  of  red. 

Through  the  long  gold-hazed  afternoon. 

Alone,  but  for  the  diving  loon, 

The  partridge  in  the  brake. 

The  black  duck  on  the  lake. 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  ash 
Sat  man  and  maid  by  Attitash  ; 

And  earth  and  air  made  room 
For  human  hearts  to  bloom. 

Soft  spread  the  carpets  of  the  sod. 

And  scarlet-oak  and  golden-rod 
With  blushes  and  with  smiles 
Lit  up  the  forest  aisles. 

The  meUow  light  the  lake  aslant, 

The  pebbled  margin’s  ripple-chant 
Attempered  and  low-toned. 

The  tender  mystery  owned. 

And  through  the  dream  the  lovers  dreamed 
Sweet  sounds  stole  in  and  soft  lights  streamed ; 
The  sunshine  seemed  to  bless. 

The  air  was  a caress. 


138  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


Not  she  who  lightly  laughed  is  there, 
With  scornful  toss  of  midnight  hair, 

Her  dark,  disdainful  eyes, 

And  proud  lip  worldly-wise. 

Her  haughty  vow  is  still  unsaid, 

But  all  she  dreamed  and  coveted 
Wears,  half  to  her  surprise. 

The  youthful  farmer’s  guise  ! 

With  more  than  all  her  old-time  pride 
She  walks  the  rye-field  at  his  side, 
Careless  of  cot  or  hall. 

Since  love  transfigures  all. 

Bich  beyond  dreams,  the  vantage-ground 
Of  life  is  gained ; her  hands  have  found 
The  talisman  of  old 
That  changes  all  to  gold. 

While  she  who  could  for  love  dispense 
With  all  its  glittering  accidents, 

And  trust  her  heart  alone. 

Finds  love  and  gold  her  own. 

What  wealth  can  buy  or  art  can  build 
Awaits  her ; but  her  cup  is  filled 
Even  now  unto  the  brim  ; 

Her  world  is  love  and  him ! 


THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH  139 


The  while  he  heard,  the  Book-man  drew 
A length  of  make-believing  face, 

With  smothered  mischief  laughing  through  : 

“ Why,  you  shall  sit  in  Bamsay’s  place. 

And,  with  his  Gentle  Shepherd,  keep 
On  Yankee  hills  immortal  sheep, 

While  love-lorn  swains  and  maids  the  seas  be- 
yond 

Hold  dreamy  tryst  around  your  huckleberry-pond.” 

The  Traveller  laughed : “ Sir  Galahad 
Singing  of  love  the  Trouvere’s  lay  ! 

How  should  he  know  the  blindfold  lad 

From  one  of  Vulcan's  forge-boys  ? ” — “ Nay, 
He  better  sees  who  stands  outside 
Than  they  who  in  procession  ride,” 

The  reader  answered : “ selectmen  and  squire 
Miss,  while  they  make,  the  show  that  wayside 
folks  admire. 

Here  is  a wild  tale  of  the  North, 

Our  travelled  friend  will  own  as  one 
Fit  for  a Norland  Christmas  hearth 
And  lips  of  Christian  Andersen. 

They  tell  it  in  the  valleys  green 
Of  the  fair  island  he  has  seen. 

Low  lying  off  the  pleasant  Swedish  shore. 

Washed  by  the  Baltic  Sea,  and  watched  by  Elsi- 
nore.” 


140  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


KALLUNDBORG  CHURCH 

“ Tie  stille,  barn  min  ! 

Imorgen  kommer  Fin, 

Fa’er  din, 

Og  gi’er  dig  Esbern  Snares  oine  og  hjerte  at  lege  med!  ” 

Zealand  Rhyme, 

“ Build  at  Kallundborg  by  the  sea 
A church  as  stately  as  church  may  be, 

And  there  thou  shalt  wed  my  daughter  fair,” 
Said  the  Lord  of  Nesvek  to  Esbern  Snare. 

And  the  Baron  laughed.  But  Esbern  said, 

“ Though  I lose  my  soul,  I will  Helva  wed  I ” 

And  off  he  strode,  in  his  pride  of  will. 

To  the  Troll  who  dwelt  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

“ Build,  O Troll,  a church  for  me 
At  Kallundborg  by  the  mighty  sea ; 

Build  it  stately,  and  build  it  fair. 

Build  it  quickly,”  said  Esbern  Snare. 

But  the  sly  Dwarf  said,  “No  work  is  wrought 
By  Trolls  of  the  Hills,  O man,  for  naught. 

What  wilt  thou  give  for  thy  church  so  fair  ? ” 

“ Set  thy  own  price,”  quoth  Esbern  Snare. 

“ When  Kallundborg  church  is  builded  well. 

Thou  must  the  name  of  its  builder  tell. 

Or  thy  heart  and  thy  eyes  must  be  my  boon.” 

“ Build,”  said  Esbern,  “ and  build  it  soon.” 


KALLUNDBORG  CHURCH 


141 


By  night  and  by  day  the  Troll  wrought  on ; 

He  hewed  the  timbers,  he  piled  the  stone  ; 

But  day  by  day,  as  the  walls  rose  fair, 

Darker  and  sadder  grew  Esbern  Snare. 

He  listened  by  night,  he  watched  by  day. 

He  sought  and  thought,  but  he  dared  not  pray ; 
In  vain  he  called  on  the  Elle-maids  shy. 

And  the  Keck  and  the  Ms  gave  no  reply. 

Of  his  evil  bargain  far  and  wide 
A rumor  ran  through  the  country-side ; 

And  Helva  of  Kesvek,  young  and  fair, 

Prayed  for  the  soul  of  Esbern  Snare. 

And  now  the  church  was  wellnigh  done ; 

One  pillar  it  lacked,  and  one  alone  ; 

And  the  grim  Troll  muttered,  Fool  thou  art ! 
To-morrow  gives  me  thy  eyes  and  heart ! ” 

By  Kallundborg  in  black  despair. 

Through  wood  and  meadow,  walked  Esbern  Snare, 
Till,  worn  and  weary,  the  strong  man  sank 
Under  the  birches  on  Ulshoi  bank. 

At  his  last  day’s  work  he  heard  the  Troll 
Hammer  and  delve  in  the  quarry’s  hole  ; 

Before  him  the  church  stood  large  and  fair  : 

I have  builded  my  tomb,”  said  Esbern  Snare. 

And  he  closed  his  eyes  the  sight  to  hide. 

When  he  heard  a light  step  at  his  side  : 


142  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


“ O Esbern  Snare  ! ” a sweet  voice  said, 

“ Would  I might  die  now  in  thy  stead  ! ” 

With  a grasp  by  love  and  by  fear  made  strong, 
He  held  her  fast,  and  he  held  her  long ; 

With  the  beating  heart  of  a bird  afeard, 

She  hid  her  face  in  his  flame-red  beard. 

“ O love  ! ” he  cried,  “ let  me  look  to-day 
In  thine  eyes  ere  mine  are  plucked  away ; 

Let  me  hold  thee  close,  let  them  feel  thy  heart 
Ere  mine  by  the  Troll  is  torn  apart ! 

“ I sinned,  O Helva,  for  love  of  thee ! 

Pray  that  the  Lord  Christ  pardon  me  ! 

But  fast  as  she  prayed,  and  faster  still, 
Hammered  the  Troll  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

He  knew,  as  he  wrought,  that  a loving  heart 
Was  somehow  baffling  his  evil  art ; 

For  more  than  spell  of  Elf  or  Troll 
Is  a maiden’s  prayer  for  her  lover’s  soul. 

And  Esbern  listened,  and  caught  the  sound 
Of  a Troll-wife  singing  underground : 

‘‘  To-morrow  comes  Fine,  father  thine  : 

Lie  still  and  hush  thee,  baby  mine  I 

‘‘  Lie  still,  my  darling  ! next  sunrise 
Thou ’It  play  with  Esbern  Snare’s  heart  and 
eyes  I ” 

Ho ! ho  ! ” quoth  Esbern,  ‘‘  is  that  your  game  ? 
Thanks  to  the  Troll-wife,  I know  his  name  I ” 


KALLUNDBORG  CHURCH 


143 


The  Troll  he  heard  him,  and  hurried  on 
To  Kallundborg  church  with  the  lacking  stone. 
« Too  late,  Gaffer  Fine  ! ” cried  Esbern  Snare ; 
And  Troll  and  pillar  vanished  in  air  1 

That  night  the  harvesters  heard  the  sound 
Of  a woman  sobbing  underground. 

And  the  voice  of  the  Hill-Troll  loud  with  blame 
Of  the  careless  singer  who  told  his  name. 

Of  the  Troll  of  the  Church  they  sing  the  rune 
By  the  Northern  Sea  in  the  harvest  moon  ; 

And  the  fishers  of  Zealand  hear  him  still 
Scolding  his  wife  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

And  seaward  over  its  groves  of  birch 
Still  looks  the  tower  of  Kallundborg  church, 
Where,  first  at  its  altar,  a wedded  pair. 

Stood  Helva  of  Nesvek  and  Esbern  Snare ! 


“ What,”  asked  the  Traveller,  would  our  sires. 
The  old  Norse  story-tellers,  say 
Of  sun-graved  pictures,  ocean  wires. 

And  smoking  steamboats  of  to-day  ? 

And  this,  O lady,  by  your  leave. 

Recalls  your  song  of  yester  eve  : 

Pray,  let  us  have  that  Cable-hymn  once  more.” 

“ Hear,  hear  ! ” the  Book-man  cried,  “ the  lady  has 
the  floor. 


144  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 

‘‘  These  noisy  waves  below  perhaps 

To  such  a strain  will  lend  their  ear, 

With  softer  voice  and  lighter  lapse 

Come  stealing  up  the  sands  to  hear, 

And  what  they  once  refused  to  do 
For  old  King  Knut  accord  to  you. 

Nay,  even  the  fishes  shall  your  listeners  be, 

As  once,  the  legend  runs,  they  heard  St.  Anthony.” 

THE  CABLE  HYMN 

O LONELY  bay  of  Trinity, 

O dreary  shores,  give  ear ! 

Lean  down  unto  the  white-lipped  sea. 

The  voice  of  God  to  hear ! 

From  world  to  world  His  couriers  fly. 
Thought-winged  and  shod  with  fire ; 

The  angel  of  His  stormy  sky 
Bides  down  the  sunken  wire. 

What  saith  the  herald  of  the  Lord  ? 

“ The  world’s  long  strife  is  done  ; 

Close  wedded  by  that  mystic  cord. 

Its  continents  are  one. 

And  one  in  heart,  as  one  in  blood. 

Shall  all  her  peoples  be  ; 

The  hands  of  human  brotherhood 
Are  clasped  beneath  the  sea. 

‘‘  Through  Orient  seas,  o’er  Afric’s  plain 
And  Asian  mountains  borne. 


THE  CABLE  HYMN 


145 


The  vigor  of  the  Northern  brain 
Shall  nerve  the  world  outworn. 

“ From  clime  to  clime,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Shall  thrill  the  magic  thread ; 

The  new  Prometheus  steals  once  more 
The  fire  that  wakes  the  dead.’’ 

Throb  on,  strong  pulse  of  thunder ! beat 
From  answering  beach  to  beach  ; 

Fuse  nations  in  thy  kindly  heat, 

And  melt  the  chains  of  each ! 

Wild  terror  of  the  sky  above. 

Glide  tamed  and  dumb  below ! 

Bear  gently,  Ocean’s  carrier-dove. 

Thy  errands  to  and  fro. 

Weave  on,  swift  shuttle  of  the  Lord, 
Beneath  the  deep  so  far. 

The  bridal  robe  of  earth’s  accord, 

The  funeral  shroud  of  war  I 

For  lo  ! the  fall  of  Ocean’s  wall 
Space  mocked  and  time  outrun ; 

And  round  the  world  the  thought  of  all 
Is  as  the  thought  of  one ! 

The  poles  unite,  the  zones  agree. 

The  tongues  of  striving  cease ; 

As  on  the  Sea  of  Galilee 
The  Christ  is  whispering.  Peace ! 


146  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


“ Glad  prophecy  I to  this  at  last,” 

The  Reader  said,  “ shall  all  things  come. 

Forgotten  be  the  bugle’s  blast. 

And  battle-music  of  the  drum. 

A little  while  the  world  may  run 

Its  old  mad  way,  with  needle-gun 
And  ironclad,  but  truth,  at  last,  shall  reign  : 

The  cradle-song  of  Christ  was  never  sung  in  vain ! ” 

Shifting  his  scattered  papers,  Here,” 

He  said,  as  died  the  faint  applause, 

“ Is  something  that  I found  last  year 
Down  on  the  island  known  as  Orr’s. 

I had  it  from  a fair-haired  girl 

Who,  oddly,  bore  the  name  of  Pearl, 

(As  if  by  some  droll  freak  of  circumstance,) 
Classic,  or  wellnigh  so,  in  Harriet  Stowe’s  ro- 
mance.” 

THE  DEAD  SHIP  OF  HARPSWELL 

What  flecks  the  outer  gray  beyond 
The  sundown’s  golden  trail  ? 

The  white  flash  of  a sea-bird’s  wing. 

Or  gleam  of  slanting  sail  ? 

Let  young  eyes  watch  from  Neck  and  Point, 
And  sea-worn  elders  pray,  — 

The  ghost  of  what  was  once  a ship 
Is  sailing  up  the  bay ! 

From  gray  sea-fog,  from  icy  drift, 

From  peril  and  from  pain, 


THE  DEAD  SHIP  OF  HARPSWELL  147 


The  home-bound  fisher  greets  thy  lights, 

O hundred-harbored  Maine ! 

But  many  a keel  shall  seaward  turn, 

And  many  a sail  outstand. 

When,  tall  and  white,  the  Dead  Ship  looms 
Against  the  dusk  of  land. 

She  rounds  the  headland’s  bristling  pines ; 
She  threads  the  isle-set  bay ; 

'No  spur  of  breeze  can  speed  her  on, 

Nor  ebb  of  tide  delay. 

Old  men  still  walk  the  Isle  of  Orr 
Who  tell  her  date  and  name. 

Old  shipwrights  sit  in  Freeport  yards 
Who  hewed  her  oaken  frame. 

What  weary  doom  of  baffled  quest. 

Thou  sad  sea-ghost,  is  thine  ? 

What  makes  thee  in  the  haunts  of  home 
A wonder  and  a sign  ? 

No  foot  is  on  thy  silent  deck. 

Upon  thy  helm  no  hand  ; 

No  ripple  hath  the  soundless  wind 
That  smites  thee  from  the  land ! 

For  never  comes  the  ship  to  port, 

Howe’er  the  breeze  may  be ; 

Just  when  she  nears  the  waiting  shore 
She  drifts  again  to  sea. 

No  tack  of  sail,  nor  turn  of  helm. 

Nor  sheer  of  veering  side  ; 

Stern-fore  she  drives  to  sea  and  night, 
Against  the  wind  and  tide. 


148  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


In  vain  o’er  Harpswell  Neck  the  star 
Of  evening  guides  her  in ; 

In  vain  for  her  the  lamps  are  lit 
Within  thy  tower,  Seguin  1 

In  vain  the  harbor-boat  shall  hail, 

In  vain  the  pilot  call ; 

No  hand  shall  reef  her  spectral  sail, 

Or  let  her  anchor  fall. 

Shake,  brown  old  wives,  with  dreary  joy. 
Your  gray-head  hints  of  ill ; 

And,  over  sick-beds  whispering  low. 

Your  prophecies  fulfil. 

Some  home  amid  yon  birchen  trees 
Shall  drape  its  door  with  woe  ; 

And  slowly  where  the  Dead  Ship  sails. 
The  burial  boat  shall  row ! 

From  WoK  Neck  and  from  Flying  Point, 
From  island  and  from  main. 

From  sheltered  cove  and  tided  creek. 
Shall  glide  the  funeral  train. 

The  dead-boat  with  the  bearers  four. 

The  mourners  at  her  stern,  — 

And  one  shall  go  the  silent  way 
Who  shall  no  more  return ! 

And  men  shall  sigh,  and  women  weep. 
Whose  dear  ones  pale  and  pine,  , 

And  sadly  over  sunset  seas 
Await  the  ghostly  sign. 


THE  PALATINE 


149 


They  know  not  that  its  sails  are  filled 
By  pity’s  tender  breath, 

Nor  see  the  Angel  at  the  helm 
Who  steers  the  Ship  of  Death ! 


Chill  as  a down-east  breeze  should  be,” 

The  Book-man  said.  ‘‘  A ghostly  touch 

The  legend  has.  I ’m  glad  to  see 
Your  flying  Yankee  beat  the  Dutch.” 

“Well,  here  is  something  of  the  sort 
Which  one  midsummer  day  I caught 
In  Narragansett  Bay,  for  lack  of  fish.” 

“ We  wait,”  the  Traveller  said ; “serve  hot  or  cold 
your  dish.” 

THE  PALATINE 

Block  Island  in  Long  Island  Sound,  called  by  the  Indians 
Manisees,  the  isle  of  the  little  god,  was  the  scene  of  a tragic 
incident  a hundred  years  or  more  ago,  when  The  Palatine^ 
an  emigrant  ship  bound  for  Philadelphia,  driven  off  its 
course,  came  upon  the  coast  at  this  point.  A mutiny  on 
board,  followed  by  an  inhuman  desertion  on  the  part  of  the 
crew,  had  brought  the  unhappy  passengers  to  the  verge  of 
starvation  and  madness.  Tradition  says  that  wreckers  on 
shore,  after  rescuing  all  but  one  of  the  survivors,  set  fire  to 
the  vessel,  which  was  driven  out  to  sea  before  a gale  which 
had  sprung  up.  Every  twelvemonth,  according  to  the  same 
tradition,  the  spectacle  of  a ship  on  fire  is  visible  to  the  in- 
habitants of  the  island. 

Leagues  north,  as  fly  the  gull  and  auk. 

Point  Judith  watches  with  eye  of  hawk  ; 

Leagues  south,  thy  beacon  flames,  Montauk  1 


150  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


Lonely  and  wind-shorn,  wood-forsaken, 

With  never  a tree  for  Spring  to  waken. 

For  tryst  of  lovers  or  farewells  taken, 

Circled  by  waters  that  never  freeze. 

Beaten  by  billow  and  swept  by  breeze, 

Lieth  the  island  of  Manisees, 

Set  at  the  mouth  of  the  Sound  to  hold 
The  coast  lights  up  on  its  turret  old. 

Yellow  with  moss  and  sea-fog  mould. 

Dreary  the  land  when  gust  and  sleet 
At  its  doors  and  windows  howl  and  beat. 

And  Winter  laughs  at  its  fires  of  peat ! 

But  in  summer  time,  when  pool  and  pond. 
Held  in  the  laps  of  valleys  fond. 

Are  blue  as  the  glimpses  of  sea  beyond ; 

When  the  hills  are  sweet  with  the  brier-rose. 
And,  hid  in  the  warm,  soft  dells,  unclose 
Flowers  the  mainland  rarely  knows  ; 

When  boats  to  their  morning  fishing  go. 

And,  held  to  the  wind  and  slanting  low. 
Whitening  and  darkening  the  small  sails  show. 

Then  is  that  lonely  island  fair ; 

And  the  pale  health-seeker  findeth  there 
The  wine  of  life  in  its  pleasant  air. 


THE  PALATINE 


151 


No  greener  valleys  the  sun  invite, 

On  smoother  beaches  no  searbirds  light, 

No  blue  waves  shatter  to  foam  more  white  I 

There,  circling  ever  their  narrow  range. 

Quaint  tradition  and  legend  strange 
Live  on  unchallenged,  and  know  no  change. 

Old  wives  spinning  their  web  of  tow, 

Or  rocking  weirdly  to  and  fro 
In  and  out  of  the  peat’s  dull  glow. 

And  old  men  mending  their  nets  of  twine, 

Talk  together  of  dream  and  sign. 

Talk  of  the  lost  ship  Palatine,  — 

The  ship  that,  a hundred  years  before. 

Freighted  deep  with  its  goodly  store. 

In  the  gales  of  the  equinox  went  ashore. 

The  eager  islanders  one  by  one 
Counted  the  shots  of  her  signal  gun. 

And  heard  the  crash  when  she  drove  right  on  ! 

Into  the  teeth  of  death  she  sped  : 

(May  God  forgive  the  hands  that  fed 
The  false  lights  over  the  rocky  Head !) 

O men  and  brothers  I what  sights  were  there ! 
White  upturned  faces,  hands  stretched  in  prayer  I 
Where  waves  had  pity,  could  ye  not  spare  ? 


152  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 

Down  swooped  the  wreckers,  like  birds  of  prey 
Tearing  the  heart  of  tke  ship  away, 

And  the  dead  had  never  a word  to  say. 

And  then,  with  ghastly  shimmer  and  shine 
Over  the  rocks  and  the  seething  brine. 

They  burned  the  wreck  of  the  Palatine. 

In  their  cruel  hearts,  as  they  homeward  sped, 

“ The  sea  and  the  rocks  are  dumb,”  they  said ; 

‘‘  There  11  be  no  reckoning  with  the  dead.” 

But  the  year  went  round,  and  when  once  more 
Along  their  foam-white  curves  of  shore 
They  heard  the  line-storm  rave  and  roar, 

Behold ! again,  with  shimmer  and  shine, 

Over  the  rocks  and  the  seething  brine. 

The  flaming  wreck  of  the  Palatine  I 

So,  haply  in  fltter  words  than  these. 

Mending  their  nets  on  their  patient  knees. 

They  tell  the  legend  of  Manisees. 

Nor  looks  nor  tones  a doubt  betray ; 

« It  is  known  to  us  all,”  they  quietly  say ; 

« We  too  have  seen  it  in  our  day.” 

Is  there,  then,  no  death  for  a word  once  spoken  ? 
Was  never  a deed  but  left  its  token 
Written  on  tables  never  broken  ? 


THE  PALATINE 


153 


Do  the  elements  subtle  reflections  give  ? 

Do  pictures  of  all  the  ages  live 
On  Nature’s  infinite  negative, 

Which,  half  in  sport,  in  malice  half. 

She  shows  at  times,  with  shudder  or  laugh, 
Phantom  and  shadow  in  photograph  ? 

For  still,  on  many  a moonless  night, 

From  Kingston  Head  and  from  Montauk  light 
The  spectre  kindles  and  burns  in  sight. 

Now  low  and  dim,  now  clear  and  higher. 

Leaps  up  the  terrible  Ghost  of  Fire, 

Then,  slowly  sinking,  the  flames  expire. 

And  the  wise  Sound  skippers,  though  skies  be  fine, 
Reef  their  sails  when  they  see  the  sign 
Of  the  blazing  wreck  of  the  Palatine! 


‘‘  A fitter  tale  to  scream  than  sing,” 

The  Book-man  said.  « Well,  fancy,  then,” 
The  Reader  answered,  “ on  the  wing 
The  sea-birds  shriek  it,  not  for  men. 

But  in  the  ear  of  wave  and  breeze ! ” 

The  Traveller  mused : « Your  Manisees 
Is  fairy-land : off  Narragansett  shore 
Who  ever  saw  the  isle  or  heard  its  name  before  ? 

“ ’T  is  some  strange  land  of  Flyaway, 

Whose  dreamy  shore  the  ship  beguiles. 


154  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


St.  Brandan’s  in  its  searmist  gray, 

Or  sunset  loom  of  Fortunate  Isles  ! ” 

“No  ghost,  but  solid  turf  and  rock 
Is  the  good  island  known  as  Block,” 

The  Header  said.  “ For  beauty  and  for  ease 
I chose  its  Indian  name,  soft-flowing  Manisees  1 

“ But  let  it  pass  ; here  is  a bit 

Of  unrhymed  story,  with  a hint 
Of  the  old  preaching  mood  in  it. 

The  sort  of  sidelong  moral  squint 
Our  friend  objects  to,  which  has  grown, 

I fear,  a habit  of  my  own. 

'T  was  written  when  the  Asian  plague  drew  near. 
And  the  land  held  its  breath  and  paled  with  sud- 
den fear.” 


ABRAHAM  DAVENPORT 

The  famous  Dark  Daj^  of  New  England,  May  19,  1780, 
was  a physical  puzzle  for  many  years  to  our  ancestors,  but 
its  occurrence  brought  something  more  than  philosophical 
speculation  into  the  minds  of  those  who  passed  through  it. 
The  incident  of  Colonel  Abraham  Davenport’s  sturdy  pro- 
test is  a matter  of  history. 

In  the  old  days  (a  custom  laid  aside 

With  breeches  and  cocked  hats)  the  people  sent 

Their  wisest  men  to  make  the  public  laws. 

And  so,  from  a brown  homestead,  where  the 
Sound 

Drinks  the  small  tribute  of  the  Mianas, 


ABRAHAM  DAVENPORT 


155 


Waved  over  by  the  woods  of  Rippowams, 

And  hallowed  by  pure  lives  and  tranquil  deaths, 
Stamford  sent  up  to  the  councils  of  the  State 
Wisdom  and  grace  in  Abraham  Davenport. 

T was  on  a May-day  of  the  far  old  year 
Seventeen  hundred  eighty,  that  there  fell 
Over  the  bloom  and  sweet  life  of  the  Spring, 

Over  the  fresh  earth  and  the  heaven  of  noon, 

A horror  of  great  darkness,  like  the  night 
In  day  of  which  the  Norland  sagas  teU,  — 

The  Twilight  of  the  Gods.  The  low-hung  sky 
Was  black  with  ominous  clouds,  save  where  its  rim 
Was  fringed  with  a dull  glow,  like  that  which 
climbs 

The  crater’s  sides  from  the  red  hell  below. 

Birds  ceased  to  sing,  and  aU  the  barn-yard  fowls 
Roosted ; the  cattle  at  the  pasture  bars 
Lowed,  and  looked  homeward;  bats  on  leathern 
wings 

Elitted  abroad ; the  sounds  of  labor  died ; 

Men  prayed,  and  women  wept ; all  ears  grew 
sharp 

To  hear  the  doom-blast  of  the  trumpet  shatter 
The  black  sky,  that  the  dreadful  face  of  Christ 
Might  look  from  the  rent  clouds,  not  as  he  looked 
A loving  guest  at  Bethany,  but  stern 
As  Justice  and  inexorable  Law. 

Meanwhile  in  the  old  State  House,  dim  as 
ghosts. 

Sat  the  lawgivers  of  Connecticut, 


156  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 

Trembling  beneath  their  legislative  robes. 

“ It  is  the  Lord's  Great  Day  1 Let  us  adjourn,*' 
Some  said ; and  then,  as  if  with  one  accord, 

All  eyes  were  turned  to  Abraham  Davenport. 

He  rose,  slow  cleaving  with  his  steady  voice 
The  intolerable  hush.  “ This  well  may  be 
The  Day  of  Judgment  which  the  world  awaits  ; 
But  be  it  so  or  not,  I only  know 
My  present  duty,  and  my  Lord's  command 
To  occupy  till  He  come.  So  at  the  post 
Where  He  hath  set  me  in  His  providence, 

I choose,  for  one,  to  meet  Him  face  to  face,  — 

No  faithless  servant  frightened  from  my  task. 

But  ready  when  the  Lord  of  the  harvest  calls  ; 

And  therefore,  with  all  reverence,  I would  say. 

Let  God  do  His  work,  we  will  see  to  ours. 

Bring  in  the  candles."  And  they  brought  them 
in. 

Then  by  the  flaring  lights  the  Speaker  read, 
Albeit  with  husky  voice  and  shaking  hands. 

An  act  to  amend  an  act  to  regulate 
The  shad  and  alewive  fisheries.  Whereupon 
Wisely  and  well  spake  Abraham  Davenport, 
Straight  to  the  question,  with  no  figures  of  speech 
Save  the  ten  Arab  signs,  yet  not  without 
The  shrewd  dry  humor  natural  to  the  man : 

His  awe-struck  colleagues  listening  all  the  while, 
Between  the  pauses  of  his  argument. 

To  hear  the  thunder  of  the  wrath  of  God 
Break  from  the  hollow  trumpet  of  the  cloud. 


ABRAHAM  DAVENPORT 


157 


And  there  he  stands  in  memory  to  this  day, 
Erect,  self-poised,  a rugged  face,  half  seen 
Against  the  background  of  unnatural  dark, 

A witness  to  the  ages  as  they  pass. 

That  simple  duty  hath  no  place  for  fear. 


He  ceased  : just  then  the  ocean  seemed 
To  lift  a half -faced  moon  in  sight ; 

And,  shore-ward,  o’er  the  waters  gleamed. 

From  crest  to  crest,  a line  of  light. 

Such  as  of  old,  with  solemn  awe. 

The  fishers  by  Gennesaret  saw. 

When  dry-shod  o’er  it  walked  the  Son  of  God, 
Tracking  the  waves  with  light  where’er  his  san- 
dals trod. 

Silently  for  a space  each  eye 
Upon  that  sudden  glory  turned : 

Cool  from  the  land  the  breeze  blew  by, 

The  tent-ropes  fiapped,  the  long  beach  churned 
Its  waves  to  foam ; on  either  hand 
Stretched,  far  as  sight,  the  hills  of  sand ; 

With  bays  of  marsh,  and  capes  of  bush  and  tree. 
The  wood’s  black  shore-line  loomed  beyond  the 
meadowy  sea. 

The  lady  rose  to  leave.  “ One  song. 

Or  hymn,”  they  urged,  “ before  we  part.” 

And  she,  with  lips  to  which  belong 
Sweet  intuitions  of  all  art, 


158  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH 


Gave  to  the  winds  of  night  a strain 
Which  they  who  heard  would  hear  again ; 

And  to  her  voice  the  solemn  ocean  lent, 

Touching  its  harp  of  sand,  a deep  accompaniment. 


THE  WORSHIP  OF  NATURE 

The  harp  at  Nature’s  advent  strung 
Has  never  ceased  to  play ; 

The  song  the  stars  of  morning  sung 
Has  never  died  away. 

And  prayer  is  made,  and  praise  is  given, 
By  all  things  near  and  far ; 

The  ocean  looketh  up  to  heaven, 

And  mirrors  every  star. 

Its  waves  are  kneeling  on  the  strand. 

As  kneels  the  human  knee. 

Their  white  locks  bowing  to  the  sand. 

The  priesthood  of  the  sea  ! 

They  pour  their  glittering  treasures  forth. 
Their  gifts  of  pearl  they  bring. 

And  all  the  listening  hills  of  earth 
Take  up  the  song  they  sing. 

The  green  earth  sends  her  incense  up 
From  many  a mountain  shrine  ; 

From  folded  leaf  and  dewy  cup 
She  pours  her  sacred  wine. 


THE  WORSHIP  OF  NATURE  159 


The  mists  above  the  morning  rills 
Rise  white  as  wings  of  prayer ; 

The  altar-curtains  of  the  hills 
Are  sunset's  purple  air. 

The  winds  with  hymns  of  praise  are  loud, 
Or  low  with  sobs  of  pain,  — 

The  thunder-organ  of  the  cloud. 

The  dropping  tears  of  rain. 

With  drooping  head  and  branches  crossed 
The  twilight  forest  grieves. 

Or  speaks  with  tongues  of  Pentecost 
From  all  its  sunlit  leaves. 

The  blue  sky  is  the  temple’s  arch. 

Its  transept  earth  and  air. 

The  music  of  its  starry  march 
The  chorus  of  a prayer. 

So  Nature  keeps  the  reverent  frame 
With  which  her  years  began, 

And  all  her  signs  and  voices  shame 
The  prayerless  heart  of  man. 


The  singer  ceased.  The  moon’s  white  rays 
Fell  on  the  rapt,  still  face  of  her. 

Allah  il  Allah  I He  hath  praise 

From  aU  things,”  said  the  Traveller. 

“ Oft  from  the  desert’s  silent  nights, 

And  mountain  hymns  of  sunset  lights, 


160 


EGO 


My  heart  has  felt  rebube,  as  in  his  tent 
The  Moslem’s  prayer  has  shamed  my  Christian 
knee  unbent.” 

He  paused,  and  lo  ! far,  faint,  and  slow 
The  bells  in  Newbury’s  steeples  tolled 
The  twelve  dead  hours ; the  lamp  burned  low ; 

The  singer  sought  her  canvas  fold. 

One  sadly  said,  “ At  break  of  day 
We  strike  our  tent  and  go  our  way.” 

But  one  made  answer  cheerily,  “ Never  fear, 

We  ’ll  pitch  this  tent  of  ours  in  type  another  year,” 

EGO 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  ALBUM  OF  A FRIEND 

ON  page  of  thine  I cannot  trace 

The  cold  and  heartless  commonplace, 

A statue’s  fixed  and  marble  grace. 

For  ever  as  these  lines  I penned. 

Still  with  the  thought  of  thee  will  blend 
That  of  some  loved  and  common  friend. 

Who  in  life’s  desert  track  has  made 
His  pilgrim  tent  with  mine,  or  strayed 
Beneath  the  same  remembered  shade. 

And  hence  my  pen  unfettered  moves 
In  freedom  which  the  heart  approves, 

The  negligence  which  friendship  loves. 


EGO 


161 


And  wilt  thou  prize  my  poor  gift  less 
For  simple  air  and  rustic  dress, 

And  sign  of  haste  and  carelessness  ? 

Oh,  more  than  specious  counterfeit 
Of  sentiment  or  studied  wit, 

A heart  like  thine  should  value  it. 

Yet  half  I fear  my  gift  will  be 
Unto  thy  book,  if  not  to  thee. 

Of  more  than  doubtful  courtesy. 

A banished  name  from  Fashion’s  sphere, 

A lay  unheard  of  Beauty’s  ear. 

Forbid,  disowned,  — what  do  they  here  ? 

Upon  my  ear  not  all  in  vain 

Came  the  sad  captive’s  clanking  chain, 

The  groaning  from  his  bed  of  pain. 

And  sadder  still,  I saw  the  woe 

Which  only  wounded  spirits  know 

When  Pride’s  strong  footsteps  o’er  them  go. 

Spurned  not  alone  in  walks  abroad. 

But  from  the  temples  of  the  Lord 
Thrust  out  apart,  like  things  abhorred. 

Deep  as  I felt,  and  stern  and  strong. 

In  words  which  Prudence  smothered  long. 
My  soul  spoke  out  against  the  wrong  ; 


162 


EGO 


'Not  mine  alone  the  task  to  speak 
Of  comfort  to  the  poor  and  weak, 

And  dry  the  tear  on  Sorrow's  cheek; 

But,  mingled  in  the  conflict  warm, 

Bo  pour  the  fiery  breath  of  storm 
Through  the  harsh  trumpet  of  Eeform ; 

To  brave  Opinion's  settled  frown. 

From  ermined  robe  and  saintly  gown, 
While  wrestling  reverenced  Error  down. 

F ounts  gushed  beside  my  pilgrim  way. 
Cool  shadows  on  the  greensward  lay. 
Flowers  swung  upon  the  bending  spray. 

And,  broad  and  bright,  on  either  hand. 
Stretched  the  green  slopes  of  Fairy-land, 
With  Hope's  eternal  sunbow  spanned; 

Whence  voices  called  me  like  the  flow. 
Which  on  the  listener's  ear  will  grow. 

Of  forest  streamlets  soft  and  low. 

And  gentle  eyes,  which  still  retain 
Their  picture  on  the  heart  and  brain. 
Smiled,  beckoning  from  that  path  of  pain. 

In  vain  ! nor  dream,  nor  rest,  nor  pause 
Bemain  for  him  who  round  him  draws 
The  battered  mail  of  Freedom's  cause. 


EGO 


163 


From  youthful  hopes,  from  each  green  spot 
Of  young  Komance,  and  gentle  Thought, 
Where  storm  and  tumult  enter  not ; 

\ 

From  each  fair  altao:t  where  belong 
The  offerings  Love  requirer^^^Qf.  Song 
In  homage  to  her  bright-eyed  throng  ^ , 

With  soul  and  strength,  with  heart  and  hand, 
I turned  to  Freedom’s  struggling  band. 

To  the  sad  Helots  of  our  land. 

What  marvel  then  that  Fame  should  turn 
Her  notes  of  praise  to  those  of  scorn ; 

Her  gifts  reclaimed,  her  smiles  withdrawn  ? 

What  matters  it  ? a few  years  more. 

Life’s  surge  so  restless  heretofore 
Shall  break  upon  the  unknown  shore ! 

In  that  far  land  shall  disappear 
The  shadows  which  we  follow  here. 

The  mist-wreaths  of  our  atmosphere  ! 

Before  no  work  of  mortal  hand. 

Of  human  will  or  strength  expand 
The  pearl  gates  of  the  Better  Land  ; 

Alone  in  that  great  love  which  gave 
Life  to  the  sleeper  of  the  grave, 

Besteth  the  power  to  seek  and  save. 


164 


EGO 


Yet,  if  the  spirit  gazing  through 
The  vista  of  the  past  can  view 
One  deed  to  Heaven  and  virtue  true  ; 

If  through  the  *6f  wasted  powers, 

from  Folly’s  bowers, 
Of  idle  aims  and  misspent  hours, 

The  eye  can  note  one  sacred  spot 
By  Pride  and  Self  profaned  not, 

A green  place  in  the  waste  of  thought. 

Where  deed  or  word  hath  rendered  less 
The  sum  of  human  wretchedness. 

And  Gratitude  looks  forth  to  bless ; 

The  simple  burst  of  tenderest  feeling 
From  sad  hearts  worn  by  evil-dealing, 

For  blessing  on  the  hand  of  healing ; 

Better  than  Glory’s  pomp  will  be 
That  green  and  blessed  spot  to  me, 

A palm-shade  in  Eternity  ! 

Something  of  Time  which  may  invite 
The  purified  and  spiritual  sight 
To  rest  on  with  a calm  delight. 

And  when  the  summer  winds  shall  sweep 
With  their  light  wings  my  place  of  sleep. 
And  mosses  round  my  headstone  creep ; 


EGO 


165 


If  still,  as  Freedom’s  rallying  sign, 

Upon  the  young  heart’s  altars  shine 
The  very  fires  they  caught  from  mine  ; 

If  words  my  lips  once  uttered  still. 

In  the  calm  faith  and  steadfast  will 
Of  other  hearts,  their  work  fulfil ; 

Perchance  with  joy  the  soul  may  learn 
These  tokens,  and  its  eye  discern 
The  fires  which  on  those  altars  burn ; 

A marvellous  joy  that  even  then, 

The  spirit  hath  its  life  again. 

In  the  strong  hearts  of  mortal  men. 

Take,  lady,  then,  the  gift  I bring, 

No  gay  and  graceful  offering. 

No  fiower-smile  of  the  laughing  spring. 

Midst  the  green  buds  of  Youth’s  fresh  May, 
With  Fancy’s  leaf-enwoven  bay. 

My  sad  and  sombre  gift  I lay. 

And  if  it  deepens  in  thy  mind 
A sense  of  suffering  human-kind,  — 

The  outcast  and  the  spirit-blind ; 

Oppressed  and  spoiled  on  every  side. 

By  Prejudice,  and  Scorn,  and  Pride, 

Life’s  common  courtesies  denied ; 


166 


MY  PSALM 


Sad  mothers  mourning  o’er  their  trust, 
Children  by  want  and  misery  nursed, 

Tasting  life’s  bitter  cup  at  first ; 

If  to  their  strong  appeals  which  come 
From  fireless  hearth,  and  crowded  room. 

And  the  close  alley’s  noisome  gloom,  — 

Though  dark  the  hands  upraised  to  thee 
In  mute  beseeching  agony. 

Thou  lend’st  thy  woman’s  sympathy  ; 

Not  vainly  on  thy  gentle  shrine. 

Where  Love,  and  Mirth,  and  Friendship  twine 
Their  varied  gifts,  I offer  mine. 

MY  PSALM 

I MOURN  no  more  my  vanished  years : 
Beneath  a tender  rain. 

An  April  rain  of  smiles  and  tears, 

My  heart  is  young  again. 

The  west-winds  blow,  and,  singing  low, 

I hear  the  glad  streams  run ; 

The  windows  of  my  soul  I throw 
Wide  open  to  the  sun. 

No  longer  forward  nor  behind 
I look  in  hope  or  fear ; 

But,  grateful,  take  the  good  I find, 

The  best  of  now  and  here. 


MY  PSALM 


167 


I plough  no  more  a desert  land, 

To  harvest  weed  and  tare ; 

The  manna  dropping  from  God’s  hand 
Rebukes  my  painful  care. 

I break  my  pilgrim  staff,  I lay 
Aside  the  toiling  oar ; 

The  angel  sought  so  far  away 
I welcome  at  my  door. 

The  airs  of  spring  may  never  play 
Among  the  ripening  corn, 

N'or  freshness  of  the  flowers  of  May 
Blow  through  the  autumn  morn ; 

Yet  shall  the  blue-eyed  gentian  look 
Through  fringed  lids  to  heaven, 

And  the  pale  aster  in  the  brook 
Shall  see  its  image  given ; — 

The  woods  shall  wear  their  robes  of  praise. 
The  south-wind  softly  sigh. 

And  sweet,  calm  days  in  golden  haze 
Melt  down  the  amber  sky. 

Not  less  shall  manly  deed  and  word 
Rebuke  an  age  of  wrong ; 

The  graven  flowers  that  wreathe  the  sword 
Make  not  the  blade  less  strong. 

But  smiting  hands  shall  learn  to  heal,  — 
To  build  as  to  destroy ; 


MY  PSALM 


Nor  less  my  heart  for  others  feel 
That  I the  more  enjoy. 

All  as  God  wills,  who  wisely  heeds 
To  give  or  to  withhold, 

And  knoweth  more  of  all  my  needs 
Than  all  my  prayers  have  told ! 

Enough  that  blessings  undeserved 
Have  marked  my  erring  track ; 

That  wheresoe’er  my  feet  have  swerved, 
His  chastening  turned  me  back ; 

That  more  and  more  a Providence 
Of  love  is  understood. 

Making  the  springs  of  time  and  sense 
Sweet  with  eternal  good ; — 

That  death  seems  but  a covered  way 
Which  opens  into  light. 

Wherein  no  blinded  child  can  stray 
Beyond  the  Father's  sight ; 

That  care  and  trial  seem  at  last. 
Through  Memory's  sunset  air, 

Like  mountain-ranges  overpast. 

In  purple  distance  fair  ; 

That  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 
Seem  blending  in  a psalm. 

And  all  the  angles  of  its  strife 
Slow  rounding  into  calm. 


RESPONSE 


169 


And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 
And  so  the  west-winds  play ; 
And  all  the  windows  of  my  heart 
I open  to  the  day. 


RESPONSE 

On  the  occasion  of  my  seventieth  birthday,  in  1877,  I 
was  the  recipient  of  many  tokens  of  esteem.  The  publish- 
ers of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  gave  a dinner  in  my  name,  and 
the  editor  of  The  Literary  World  gathered  in  his  paper 
many  affectionate  messages  from  my  associates  in  literature 
and  the  cause  of  human  progress.  The  lines  which  follow 
were  written  in  acknowledgment, 

Beside  that  milestone  where  the  level  sun, 
Nigh  unto  setting,  sheds  his  last,  low  rays 
On  word  and  work  irrevocably  done. 

Life’s  blending  threads  of  good  and  ill  outspun, 

I hear,  O friends!  your  words  of  cheer  and 
praise. 

Half  doubtful  if  myself  or  otherwise. 

Like  him  who,  in  the  old  Arabian  joke, 

A beggar  slept  and  crowned  CaMph  woke. 
Thanks  not  the  less.  With  not  unglad  surprise 
I see  my  life-work  through  your  partial  eyes  ; 
Assured,  in  giving  to  my  home-taught  songs 
A higher  value  than  of  right  belongs. 

You  do  but  read  between  the  written  lines 
The  finer  grace  of  unfulfilled  designs. 


AT  LAST 


[Recited  by  one  of  the  little  group  of  relations,  who  stood 
by  the  poet’s  bedside,  as  the  last  moment  of  his  life  ap- 
proached.] 

WILEN  on  my  day  of  life  the  night  is  falling, 
And,  in  the  winds  from  unsunned  spaces 
blown, 

I hear  far  voices  out  of  darkness  calling 
My  feet  to  paths  unknown, 

Thou  who  hast  made  my  home  of  life  so  pleasant, 
Leave  not  its  tenant  when  its  walls  decay  ; 

O Love  Divine,  O Helper  ever  present. 

Be  Thou  my  strength  and  stay ! 

Be  near  me  when  all  else  is  from  me  drifting ; 
Earth,  sky,  home’s  pictures,  days  of  shade  and 
shine. 

And  kindly  faces  to  my  own  uplifting 
The  love  which  answers  mine. 

I have  but  Thee,  my  Father ! let  Thy  spirit 
Be  with  me  then  to  comfort  and  uphold ; 

'No  gate  of  pearl,  no  branch  of  palm  I merit, 

Nor  street  of  shining  gold. 

Suffice  it  if  — my  good  and  ill  unreckoned. 

And  both  forgiven  through  Thy  abounding 
grace  — 

I find  myself  by  hands  familiar  beckoned 
Unto  my  fitting  place. 


AT  LAST 


171 


Some  humble  door  among  Thy  many  mansions, 
Some  sheltering  shade  where  sin  and  striving 
cease, 

And  flows  forever  through  heaven’s  green  expan- 
sions 

The  river  of  Thy  peace. 

There,  from  the  music  round  about  me  stealing, 

I fain  would  learn  the  new  and  holy  song. 

And  find  at  last,  beneath  Thy  trees  of  healing, 

The  life  for  which  I long. 


NOTES 


NOTES 


Page  11,  line  25.  Ah,  brother!  only  I and  thou, 

Matthew  Franklin  Whittier,  born  July  4,  1812,  died  Janu- 
ary 7,  1883.  In  middle  life,  during  his  residence  in  Port- 
land, he  took  a deep  interest  in  the  anti-slavery  movement, 
and  wrote  a series  of  caustic  letters  under  the  signature 
Ethan  Spike  of  Hornby. 

Page  12,  line  25.  The  Chief  of  Gambians  golden  shore. 
The  African  Chief  was  the  title  of  a poem  by  Mrs.  Sarah 
Wentworth  Morton,  wife  of  the  Hon.  Perez  Morton,  a for- 
mer attorney-general  of  Massachusetts.  Mrs.  Morton’s  nom 
de  plume  was  Philenia,  The  schoolbook  in  which  The  Afri- 
can Chief  was  printed  was  Caleb  Bingham’s  The  American 
Preceptor,  and  the  poem  contained  fifteen  stanzas,  of  which 
the  first  four  were  as  follows  : — 

See  how  the  black  ship  cleaves  the  main 
High-bounding  o’er  the  violet  wave, 

Remurmuring  with  the  groans  of  pain, 

Deep  freighted  with  the  princely  slave. 

Did  all  the  gods  of  Afric  sleep, 

Forgetful  of  their  guardian  love, 

When  the  white  traitors  of  the  deep 
Betrayed  him  in  the  palmy  grove  ? 

A chief  of  Gambia’s  golden  shore. 

Whose  arm  the  band  of  warriors  led, 

Perhaps  the  lord  of  boundless  power. 

By  whom  the  foodless  poor  were  fed. 

Does  not  the  voice  of  reason  cry, 

“ Claim  the  first  right  which  nature  gave ; 

Prom  the  red  scourge  of  bondage  fly. 

Nor  deign  to  live  a burdened  slave  ” ? 


176 


NOTES 


Page  15,  line  3.  From  painful  SeweVs  ancient  tome. 

William  Sewel  was  the  historian  of  the  Quakers.  Charles 
Lamb  seemed  to  have  as  good  an  opinion  of  the  book  as 
Whittier.  In  his  essay,  A Quakers^  Meeting^  in  Essays  of 
Elia,  he  says  : Eeader,  if  you  are  not  acquainted  with  it, 

I would  recommend  to  you,  above  all  church-narratives,  to 
read  SewePs  History  of  the  Quakers.  ...  It  is  far  more 
edifying  and  affecting  than  anything  you  will  read  of  Wes- 
ley or  his  colleagues.^’ 

Page  15,  line  6.  Or  Chalkley^s  Journal,  old  and  quaint. 

Thomas  Chalkley  was  an  Englishman  of  Quaker  parent- 
age,  born  in  1675,  who  travelled  extensively  as  a preacher, 
and  finally  made  his  home  in  Philadelphia.  He  died  in 
1749  ; his  Journal  was  first  published  in  1747.  His  own 
narrative  of  the  incident  which  the  poet  relates  is  as  fol- 
lows : “ To  stop  their  murmuring,  I told  them  they  should 
not  need  to  cast  lots,  which  was  usual  in  such  cases,  which 
of  us  should  die  first,  for  I would  freely  offer  up  my  life  to 
do  them  good.  One  said,  ' God  bless  you  ! I will  not  eat 
any  of  you.’  Another  said,  ‘ He  would  die  before  he  would 
eat  any  of  me  ; ’ and  so  said  several.  I can  truly  say,  on 
that  occasion,  at  that  time,  my  life  was  not  dear  to  me,  and 
that  I was  serious  and  ingenuous  in  my  proposition  ; and 
as  I was  leaning  over  the  side  of  the  vessel,  thoughtfully 
considering  my  proposal  to  the  company,  and  looking  in 
my  mind  to  Him  that  made  me,  a very  large  dolphin  came 
up  towards  the  top  or  surface  of  the  water,  and  looked  me  in 
the  face  ; and  I called  the  people  to  put  a hook  into  the  sea, 
and  take  him,  for  here  is  one  come  to  redeem  me  (I  said  to 
them).  And  they  put  a hook  into  the  sea,  and  the  fish 
readily  took  it,  and  they  caught  him.  He  was  longer  than 
myself.  I think  he  was  about  six  feet  long,  and  the  lar- 
gest that  ever  I saw.  This  plainly  showed  us  that  we  ought 
not  to  distrust  the  providence  of  the  Almighty.  The  peo- 
ple were  quieted  by  this  act  of  Providence,  and  murmured 
no  more.  We  caught  enough  to  eat  plentifully  of,  till  we 
got  into  the  capes  of  Delaware.” 


NOTES 


177 


Page  15,  line  24.  Our  uncle,  innocent  of  hooks. 

For  further  account  of  Whittier’s  uncle  Moses,  the  reader 
is  referred  to  Whittier’s  Prose  Works,  volume  I.  p.  323. 

Page  18,  line  1.  There,  too,  our  elder  sister  plied. 

Mary  Whittier,  born  September  3,  1806,  married  Jacob 
Caldwell  of  Haverhill,  had  two  children,  Lewis  Henry  and 
Mary  Elizabeth,  and  died  January  7,  1860. 

Page  18,  line  19.  Our  youngest  and  our  dearest  sat. 

Elizabeth  Hussey  Whittier,  born  December  7,  1815,  was 
to  her  brother  John  what  Dorothy  Wordsworth  was  to  Wil- 
liam. It  was  her  brother’s  opinion  that  ‘^had  her  health, 
sense  of  duty,  and  almost  morbid  dread  of  spiritual  and  in- 
tellectual egotism  permitted,  she  might  have  taken  a high 
place  among  lyrical  singers.”  She  died  September  3,  1864, 

Page  19,  line  31.  The  master  of  the  district  school. 

Until  near  the  end  of  his  life,  Whittier  was  unable  to 
recall  the  name  of  the  schoolmaster  who  stood  for  this  fig- 
ure in  Snow-Bound.  At  last  he  remembered  his  name  as 
Haskell,  and  from  this  clue  the  person  was  traced.  He  was 
George  Haskell  from  Waterford,  Maine,  a Dartmouth  stu- 
dent, who  studied  medicine,  and  removed  to  Illinois,  where 
he  was  active  in  founding  Shurtleff  College.  Later,  he 
made  his  home  at  Vineland,  New  Jersey,  where  he  aided 
in  laying  out  the  model  community  there,  and  especially  in 
establishing  an  industrial  school.  He  died  in  1876,  and 
seems  never  to  have  known  that  his  portrait  was  drawn  in 
Snow-Bound. 

Page  22,  line  7.  Another  guest  that  winter  night. 

In  his  introductory  note,  Whittier  adds  somewhat  to  his 
characterization  of  Harriet  Livermore.  At  the  time  when 
Snow-Bound  was  written  he  did  not  know  that  she  was  liv- 
ing, or  he  might  not  have  introduced  her.  She  died  in  1867. 

Page  23,  line  21.  The  crazy  Queen  of  Lebanon. 

An  interesting  account  of  Lady  Hester  Stanhope  may  be 
ound  in  Kinglake’s  Eothen,  chap.  viii. 

Page  27,  line  3.  The  wise  old  doctor  was  Dr.  Weld  of 
Haverhill,  an  able  man,  who  died  at  the  age  of  ninety-six. 


178  NOTES 

Page  27,  line  27.  Where  Ellwood^s  meeTc,  drah^slcirted 
Muse, 

Thomas  Ellwood,  one  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  a con- 
temporary and  friend  of  Milton,  and  the  suggester  of  Para- 
dise Regained,  wrote  an  epic  poem  in  five  books  called 
Davideis,  the  life  of  King  David  of  Israel.  He  wrote  the 
book,  we  are  told,  for  his  own  diversion,  so  it  was  not  ne- 
cessary that  others  should  be  diverted  by  it.  Ellwood^s 
autobiography,  a quaint  and  delightful  book,  may  be  found 
in  Howells’s  series  of  Choice  Autobiographies. 

Page  28,  line  5.  Before  us  passed  the  painted  CreeJcs. 

Referring  to  the  removal  of  the  Creek  Indians  from 
Georgia  to  beyond  the  Mississippi. 

Page  28,  line  6.  And  daft  McGregor  on  his  raids. 

In  1822  Sir  Gregor  McGregor,  a Scotchman,  began  an  in- 
effectual attempt  to  establish  a colony  in  Costa  Rica. 

Page  29,  line  28.  These  Flemish  pictures  of  old  days. 

In  1888  Whittier  wrote  the  following  lines  on  the  fly-leaf 
of  a copy  of  the  first  edition  of  Snow-Bound:  — 

Twenty  years  have  taken  flight 
Since  these  pages  saw  the  light. 

All  home  loves  are  gone, 

But  not  all  with  sadness,  still, 

Do  the  eyes  of  memory  All 
As  I gaze  thereon. 

Lone  and  weary  life  seemed  when 
First  these  pictures  of  the  pen 
Grew  upon  my  page  ; 

But  I still  have  loving  friends 
And  the  peace  our  Father  sends 
Cheers  the  heart  of  age. 

Page  35,  line  7. 

And  the  good  man^s  voice,  at  strife 
With  his  shrill  and  tipsy  wife. 

When  Whittier  first  went  to  school  with  his  sister  Mary, 
the  school-house  was  undergoing  repairs,  and  the  school 


NOTES 


179 


was  held  in  a dwelling-house,  the  other  part  of  which  was 
occupied  bj  a tipsy  and  quarrelsome  couple. 

Page  48,  line  1.  Here  is  the  place ; right  over  the  hill, 
“The  place  Whittier  had  in  mind  was  his  birthplace. 
There  were  beehives  on  the  garden  terrace  near  the  well 
sweep,  occupied  perhaps  by  the  descendants  of  Thomas 
Whittier’s  bees.  The  approach  to  the  house  from  over  the 
northern  shoulder  of  Job’s  Hill  by  a path  that  was  in  con- 
stant use  in  his  boyhood  and  still  in  existence,  is  accurately 
described  in  the  poem.  The  ‘gap  in  the  old  waU  ’ is  still  to 
be  seen,  and  ‘ the  stepping  stones  in  the  shallow  brook  ’ are 
stiU  in  use.  His  sister’s  garden  was  down  by  the  brook- 
side  in  front  of  the  house,  and  her  daffodils  are  perpetuated 
and  may  now  be  found  in  their  season  each  year  in  that 
place.  The  red-barred  gate,  the  poplars,  the  cattle  yard 
with  ‘ the  white  horns  tossing  above  the  wall,’  were  all  part 
of  Whittier’s  boy  life  on  the  old  farm.  Even  the  touch  of 
‘the  sundown’s  blaze  on  her  window  pane’  is  realistic. 
The  only  place  from  which  the  blaze  of  the  setting  sun 
could  be  seen  reflected  in  the  windows  of  the  old  mansion 
is  from  the  path  so  perfectly  described.  . . . All  the  story 
about  Mary  and  her  lover  is  wholly  imaginative.”  S.  T. 
PiCKAED  in  his  Life  and  Letters  of  John  Greenleaf  Whit- 
tier, 

Page  76,  line  13.  I see  the  gray  forVs  hroTcen  wall. 

The  place  that  was  in  the  mind  of  the  poet  when  he  wrote 
this  stanza  was  on  the  rocks  at  Marblehead,  where  he  had 
spent  an  early  morning  more  than  forty  years  before. 

Page  102,  line  16.  He  loved  himself  the  singer^ s art, 

Mr.  Fields  printed  privately  a volume  of  verse  which 
called  out  Mr.  Whittier’s  pleasant  lines  To  James  T,  Fields 
on  a blank  leaf  of  Poems  printed  not  published,’’^  Another 
poem  In  Memory  was  written  after  the  death  of  his  pub- 
lisher and  friend. 

Page  102,  line  23. 

Pleasant  it  was  to  roam  about 
The  lettered  world  as  he  had  done. 


180 


NOTES 


Mr.  Fields’s  Yesterdays  with  Authors  contains  in  agreea- 
ble form  many  of  those  reminiscences  of  men  of  letters  and 
art  which  made  him  so  companionable  when  living,  and 
further  hints  of  his  comradery  with  the  literary  guild  may 
be  found  in  the  memorial  volume,  James  T»  Fields:  Bio- 
graphical Notes  and  Personal  SJcetches, 

Page  104,  line  17. 

And  one  whose  Arab  face  was  tanned 
By  tropic  sun  and  boreal  frost, 

Bayard  Taylor  was  in  Germany  when  The  Tent  on  the 
Beach  was  published,  and  he  wrote  back  to  Mr.  Fields, 
“How  pleasantly  will  you  and  I float  down  to  posterity 
each  holding  on  to  the  strong  swimmer,  J.  G.  W. ! ” 
After  Taylor’s  death,  Mr.  Whittier  wrote  the  lines  headed 
Bayard  Taylor,  The  Quaker  origin  of  the  two  men  was  a 
subtle  bond  of  union. 

Page  109,  line  9.  And  fair  are  the  sunny  isles  in  view. 
The  sunny  isles  in  view  from  Great  Boar’s  Head,  and 
Little  Boar’s  Head  as  well,  are  the  famous  Isles  of  Shoals, 
whose  praises  have  been  sung  so  well  by  Celia  Thaxter. 
Page  110,  line  23. 

Till  the  huts  and  the  flakes  on  Star  seemed  nighf 
And  they  lost  the  scent  of  the  pines  of  Rye, 

Star  Island,  occupied  then  as  now  by  fisher  folk,  is  one 
of  the  Isles  of  Shoals.  The  township  of  Rye  with  its  odor- 
ous pine-woods  reaches  to  the  sea  at  Rye  Beach. 

Page  113,  line  20.  Amen ” said  Father  Bachiler, 
Evidence  found  in  favor  of  the  Rev.  Stephen  Bachiler, 
an  ancestor  of  the  poet,  after  the  poem  was  first  printed, 
led  Whittier  to  modify  lines  which  implied  the  guilt  of  the 
clergyman. 

Page  123,  line  20.  Bis  Crimean  camp-song  hints  to  us. 
The  reference  is  to  Bayard  Taylor’s  poem.  The  Song  of 
the  Camp, 

Page  149.  The  Palatine.  The  legend  on  which  this  bal- 
lad is  founded  was  told  to  Mr.  Whittier  by  his  friend, 
Joseph  P.  Hazard,  of  Newport,  R.  I.,  two  years  before 


NOTES 


181 


the  poem  was  written.  About  two  years  after  it  was 
published,  he  received  a curious  letter  from  Mr.  Benjamin 
Corydon,  of  NapoU,  N.  Y.,  then  in  the  ninety-second  year 
of  his  age,  who  wrote  : — 

The  Palatine  was  a ship  that  was  driven  upon  Block 
Island,  in  a storm,  more  than  a hundred  years  ago.  Her 
people  had  just  got  ashore,  and  were  on  their  knees  thank- 
ing God  for  saving  them  from  drowning,  when  the  Island- 
ers rushed  upon  them  and  murdered  them  all.  That  was  a 
little  more  than  the  Almighty  could  stand,  so  He  sent  the 
Fire  or  Phantom  Ship,  to  let  them  know  He  had  not  for- 
gotten their  wickedness.  She  was  seen  once  a year  on  the 
same  night  of  the  year  on  which  the  murders  occurred, 
as  long  as  any  of  the  wreckers  were  living  ; but  never  after 
all  were  dead.  I must  have  seen  her  eight  or  ten  times  — 
perhaps  more  — in  my  early  days.  It  is  seventy  years  or 
more  since  she  was  last  seen.  My  father  lived  right  oppo- 
site Block  Island,  on  the  mainland,  so  we  had  a fair  vi3w 
of  her  as  she  passed  down  by  the  island  ; then  she  would 
disappear.  She  resembled  a full-rigged  ship,  with  her  sails 
all  set  and  all  ablaze.  It  was  the  grandest  sight  I ever  saw 
in  all  my  life.  I know  of  only  two  living  who  ever  saw 

tier, Benjamin  L.  Knowles,  of  Rhode  Island,  now  ninety 

four  years  old,  and  myself,  now  in  my  ninety-second  year.” 


ELECTROTYPED  AND  PRINTED 
BY  H.  O.  HOUGHTON  AND  CO. 

(gtbc  iHitocrgibe 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  U.  S.  A. 


